Skyrim: A Redguard's tale
by The Hobbyist
Summary: A Redguard bent on revenge. The Dragonborn discovering his new-found identity. A country in crisis and a world on the edge of destruction. Only together can they overcome civil conflict and defeat the World Eater himself.
1. Chapter 1  Foreigner in a foreign land

**Chapter 1**

"Halt!" The guard's call stopped the dark skinned man from approaching the city any further. As the man turned his head the early morning sun glinted off a shiny object on his belt; a sword, its distinctive curve leaving no doubt of its origin. Yes, a Redguard of Hammerfell, likely in league with those Allik'r fellows hanging around. Flushing the city out. "The city is closed to those without official business."

"I have business with a man named Belethor," the Redguard replied, his deep exotic accent striking a cord with the guard. "It's rather pressing." The guard looked intently at the man, who's face was partially hidden by his hood. The hood was a trademark of his people, something the people of Whiterun were becoming more and more familiar with. However... this man didn't hold the same demeanor the others did. For one, he wasn't boorish nor pushy. He didn't convey any emotions actually, simply stating facts as they were. He also wasn't wearing the same clothes as the others were; instead of robes he had on leather garb. It was scratched and worn in places, evident of many long trips and hard roads. Not unnoticed was the multiple arrow punctures and sword slashes.

"I'm sorry, it'll have to wait." The Redguard's mouth twitched in annoyance: he was about to reply when there was a sudden terrifying roar. It's sound seemed to penetrate into their very bones, striking fear into the hearts of both men. The sound reverberated off the distant mountains in the south, and again both men cringed with a very real, very old fear of prey meeting a predator. There was one last cry, and it faded away.

"You would have me stay out here," the Redguard said slowly, "while beasts that can conjure such a sound roam the wilds?"

It did seem horrible indeed. The guard was glad to have the high walls of his city. He looked at the man again, seeing the same blank expression. After a hesitant look towards the sky, he replied "Shor's bones. I know not what beast that may be, but I'll be damned if I'll let a stranger die by my own stubbornness. Welcome to Whiterun." He signaled to have the gate unlocked. "Get into any trouble in my city, and I'll haul you off to Dragonsreach myself," he added hastily as the great door swung open. The Redguard merely nodded as he walked into the city.

Immediately upon entering, he bumped into another Redguard. Surprised (but not showing it), the man turned to face him. "Brother. It's good to see a friendly face in this foreign land. I am Kematu, of the Alik'r warriors. And you are?"

"A man with honor, unlike some." The harshness of the reply gave Kematu pause; a confused look passed his face.

"I do not understand brother."

"Nor would I expect you to. While some fought to reclaim our home... others claimed their own names."

Now offense had taken hold. "I have tasted Thalmor blood on my blade, I have ran through with the finest soldiers of the Dominion, slashing my way through-"

"You war stories do not amuse, nor impress me. I was there on the field of Sentinel while you and your," he spat on the ground, "_nobles_ haggled with the Bretons over boundary lines. While Redguard blood was being spilled you... you stood by and did _nothing_, leaving other men to die in your place. You have no honor, no respect and no love from _this_ brother."

"I ought to teach you a lesson." Kematu half reached for his scimitar. He was stopped, however, when he felt a dagger poking into his stomach.

"I'd have gutted you before your blade hit the air," the Redguard stranger hissed at Kematu. He returned the dagger to his belt and walked on, heading down the main street of the Plains district.

"Aw, no!" Belethor shouted from behind his desk. "I told those guards I didn't want you Redguards in my shop! You've already made a mess of things, now get out of here before I call the guards!"

The Redguard walking in, however, did not stop. He gestured absently with his hands. "I am not among the Alik'r who stand near the gates. I am Strid'r, and I have come to do business."

"Business? Now you're talking my language!" the Breton replied. "Let's talk!" Instead of replying, Strid'r took a small pouch out of his pocket. With his other hand, he pulled out a dagger. Slowly, he put the pouch on the counter and pulled the dagger up against the side. "Smart man who protects his wares," Belethor said under his breath. Strid'r's eye flickered at the comment, but his attention did not stray from the pouch. With a deft movement, he undid the drawstrings. Belethor's eyes opened wide as his face was bathed in a green light. Just as fast, the drawstrings were pulled close and the pouch returned to the owner's pocket. Belethor's expression was disbelief, he shuddered as if stunned.

"I see you recognize it."

"But... but..." Belethor stammered, "it was lost. By the Eight. Lost _centuries_ ago."

"It was found."

"Look... even if I did want to buy that, I couldn't even come close to enough cash. I'd have to sell my shop and myself into slavery for years." Belethor paused, looking out the window at Whiterun for a moment. "But it's not about the money. There's blood involved with that, more blood than I'd be willing to shed. It would be the end of me."

"I had a feeling you'd say that," Strid'r replied. His hand fluttered over the pocket with the pouch safely secured. "I was hoping you could put me in contact with someone who would be able to... procure me someone to sell this to."

"Well, that's a fair shot more reasonable. Let's see... I might be able to put you in contact with someone. But it'll cost you."

Strid'r gritted his teeth at this. "I have naught but the clothes on my back."

"Then I'd suggest you find some alternative method of income." Strid'r's dagger came up instantly, catching the Breton's collar and pulling him over the counter by the tip of the blade.

"How about you tell me your prospective contact while I slowly remove appendeges from your body." With a grunt, Belethor choked out a reply.

"Bad idea. I know Hammerfell is a barbaric land, but here in Whiterun at least we keep track of nasty murders and such. You may have noticed my assistant outside; he keeps track of everyone who comes in to my shop just in case I should, Divines forbid it, wind up dead." With a sigh, Strid'r pulled the dagger back. "I'll need at least two-hundred septims. It'll cost me at least that much to get in contact with my man."

"I'll get you your money." Without another word, he turned and left the shop.


	2. Chapter 2 A deal forged by need

"Hello," Strid'r said pleasantly to the woman running the bar at the Bannered Mare. Out of the corner of his eye, Strid'r saw a dark skinned woman dart behind the stairs. _Redguard_ he saw instantly. Filing the thought away, he turned his attentions back to the woman, who was offering him a room and strong drink. "Actually, I'm looking for work. Do you have any leads?"

"Some of the Jarl's men put out a bounty on some bandits. That gentleman over there, however, had just grabbed the decree naught a second before you." She motioned to a young Nord facing the hearth, examining a piece of paper in his hand. Without a word, Strid'r pushed off from the bar and stood next to the lean blond haired man in clearly secondhand armor.

"Excuse me, could I perhaps have a look at that bounty decree?" he asked, his voice smooth over the quiet din of the tavern. The Nord, who had been drinking a bottle of Mead, instantly folded the paper in two and threw it into the fire. Strid'r stretched his hand out, but the paper was engulfed before he could reach it.

"Sorry," the Nord said in mock apology, "but I don't fancy you running off and stealing my bounty."

"How much would you fancy a knife in your gut, friend?" Strid'r hissed back. The Nord, still facing the fire, grinned.

"You'd be dead before I hit the floor. This climate isn't too friendly for a foreigner, much less one who goes around knifing Nords. Listen, I've had one hell of a morning, so if you don't mind I'd like for you to, you know, step off."

"Tell me," Strid'r growled, his mouth twitching with anger, "where the bandits are. I will not ask you again." This time, the Nord turned to face the Redguard,nose to nose, the heat of the hearth to their sides.

"Sounds to me like you could use the money. I have an incredibly important report to make to the Jarl here, but someone like me doesn't just get into the Jarl's court very easily. So I figure if I come in with a completed bounty, he might look more favorably on my presence." He took another swig of mead. "Maybe _he _won't lop my head off."

"I don't see what this has to do with me." Strid'r was growing more impatient with the Nord, becoming angry with his easy disposition. Couldn't he see that his own matter was more urgent than whatever he had to say to the Jarl?

"Ah, I was getting there. If you'd want to accompany me to the bandit camp, help me fulfil the bounty, I'd be more than happy to give you the majority of the reward. I only would need enough to cover costs." Strid'r let his hand fall away from his dagger, where it had been resting.

"Fine. We have a deal."

The Nord slapped him on the back, spilling part of his mead in the process. "Excellent! And what shall I call you? I don't think you fancy 'Redguard fellow' all that much now would you?"

"I am Strid'r of Sentinel, Warrior of Hammerfell." Nodding and drinking, the Nord ordered another drink.

"Well met, Strid'r of Hammerfell. I am Fraener Frost-Crown, son of Erik of Falkreath. Have a drink on me." Strid'r took the drink, but did not make any motion to drink of it.

"Fraener, I must admit I am working on an urgent matter: I should like it very much if we get moving as soon as possible."

Fraener gave a light smile. "But of course, companion. Let us be off! Follow me, for I know the way to the bandit camp." With that, they left the Bannered Mare.

Far to the east of the quiet Whiterun Hold, a blood-curdling cry echoed into the sky. The destitute and weakened Nord fell to his knees in agony, his lungs burning from the scream. With a thud he landed on the ground in a heap, his muscles giving up on him. Behind him lay the slaughtered bodies of his former crew, strewn in various helpless positions. Two lanky individuals wearing bright golden armor flanked a third, garbed in ornate blackened robes.

The Thalmor Justiciator's hands were bathed in an orange light, the flame perfectly contained within his palm, shedding light on the dimming day. With a motion, he directed the two Thamlor soldiers to prop up the only living Nord of the crew. "Now then, I presume you wouldn't want a repeat of that performance, captain. Please, give me what I want and I won't have to do it again." The Justiciator approached the barely conscious Nord, and lightly applied a healing spell. The weariness and pain instantly left the man's body.

"P-please," he whispered desperately, "I d-d-don't know anymore I swear."

"Let me refresh your memory of the question," the Altmer responded, "The Redguard you transported from Hammerfell: where was he going?"

The Nord shook his head, exasperated. "I told you already, we unloaded him in Dawnstar and that was it! Now please, let me go. That's all I know!"

"But of course. If that's all you know, then you are free to go. Release him." The soldiers obeyed instantly. The captain looked up in disbelief. "I'd advise you get moving, captain." The Nord didn't need to be told twice and started running down the hill. When he was a fair distance away, the Thalmor Jusiciator summoned forth lightning and shot him in the back, sending him sprawling. He was dead before he hit the ground.

"Sir," one of the soldiers said, her voice taut and without emotion, "shall I send for a cleanup crew?"

"Yes," the head Altmer replied, "and draft a report to the Embassy. The Stone is in Skyrim, somewhere."


	3. Chapter 3 To Kill a Bandit

**A/N: Well, certainly nice to have finally gotten some attention! I've been a patron of fanfiction for quite some time now, only now am I starting to dabble in writing. Skyrim is among my all time favorite games, so it seemed only appropriate I should write a story about them. In particular, I've always thought the Redguards were interesting.**

**I'm new here, so any help would be much appreciated. Thanks for following, it makes it easier to get noticed. So please Comment any tips or criticisms, or just what you think of it. Note that I will not be sticking entirely to the main storyline, as it's difficult in some places with two main character's (although only one dragonborn).  
>So, it goes without saying I own nothing here, it's all the beautiful work of Bethesda. <strong>

"Kynareth's peace, would it kill you to watch where you're walking?" The Nord woman dusted herself off after collecting herself from the ground, the Nord she just admonished looking rather sheepish. Beside him, Strid'r shifted his weight impatiently.

"Please," Fraener replied quickly, "accept my humblest apologies."

"Hmph," she shot back, her brief anger already fading. "It's alright I suppose, but be more careful next time-"

"Next time I'm walking?" Despite being knocked over, she gave a chuckle at his smart comment.

"Okay then smart one. Just don't knock into me again, okay?"

"Deal. And to make it real, I give you my name: I am Fraener Frost-Crown."

"And I Ysolda, soon-to-be trader of goods. Always good to meet new people in Whiterun."

"You wish to be a trader, you said?" Ysolda's face darkened noticeably.

"Yes. Before my da and ma passed, I told them I was going to be the best trader in Skyrim. I've been trading with the Khajit caravans, and they said they'd help me get started if I provided them with a mammoth's tusk. Problem is, I haven't the foggiest idea where to get one."

In an extravagant manner, Fraener bowed slighty as he said in a mock-regal voice: "M'lady, if I come across one in my travels I will be sure to bring it to you." Ysolda looked up, surprise on etched on her face.

"You would do that for me? If you did, I can show you a couple tricks I learned to make sure you get a fair deal from merchants."

"Two deals in one day! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you already were a shrewd merchant!"

"Oh please." Ysolda's tone was of contempt, but her grin showed overwise. Before Fraener could reply, Strid'r cleared his throat, motioning towards the gate.

"Ah," Fraener said a bit sheepishly. "I'm afraid we must be on our way." He glanced at Strid'r and back at Ysolda.

"Jarl's business. We must be off." Strid'r was walking before Ysolda could reply.

"M'Lady. Forgive my associate, he's..."

"A bit cold? Skyrim will do that to a foreigner. Go, I'll still be here when you get back. Farewell." Fraener smiled, bowed his head (in sincerity this time) and left to chase after the Redguard.

"You know," Fraener said curtly to Strid'r as he caught up to him. As they passed by the Temple of Kynareth, he heard some priestess say "it's a damn shame, isn't it?". Ignoring her, he rounded on Strid'r: "You know, it's rude to just walk away from someone like that."

"Do you have a weapon?" Strid'r replied, ignoring the comment. "I see you have a bow: do you have arrows to accompany them?"

"Arrows? Well, a few. Not as many as I'd like," he admitted.

"Sword? Axe? Anything for close combat?" Fraener felt heat rush to his face.

"Look, I haven't had the best of days, sorry if I didn't come fully prepared for war like you clearly have!" The Redguard stopped, and pointed at the shop they were now in front of. The sign said "Warmaiden", and a woman was out front working the forge.

"I wasn't asking to criticize. You can get a weapon here, and some arrows." Fraener meekly apologized, and walked over to the woman working the forge. A few minutes later, he came out with a dozen more arrows and a hefty looking battle-axe.

"Bought it on credit," the Nord explained. "Just have to pay her my half of the bounty when we get back." Strid'r just nodded, saying nothing else as they left the city through the imposing main gates.

"Looks like... four out front on the gate, with two inside doing Shor knows what." Fraener's whispers reached Strid'r, lying on the ground several paces behind. The small hill was enough for them to hide behind without being noticed, the lackadaisical bandits not the best surveillance. After a day long travel, the two finally reached their destination: Halted Stream Camp.

"Can you hit them from here?" Strid'r asked. Fraener shook his head, then, realizing the Redguard couldn't see him doing that, whispered back that he couldn't.

Strid'r touched the hilt of his sword, feeling the familiar handgrip. Crafted from Ebony, the sword was his family's pride and joy. It was smithed by his great-great grandfather, who was the first Redguard in Hammerfell to use Ebony from Morrowind. His family's history lay in smithing, not fighting. Although several cousins had made decent careers as sellswords or in the ranks of the Fighter's Guild, on a whole his family had been proud and excellent smiths. Until, that is, the Thalmor invaded. The Great War devastated half of Hammerfell, with many Redguards dying in service to the Legion. That same Legion that abandoned them when, with the Aldmeri forces driven from Cyrodiil, they signed a cowardly peace treaty that gave the elves half of Hammerfell.

"Hey, you got somethin' in your ears?" Fraener's frantic whisper caught his attention.

"Sorry," Strid'r shot back defensively. "What's happening?"

"Come up and see for yourself."

Three men in black robes had arrived. After a brief conversation with the bandit guards, they attacked. Unnatural flames blasted the wooden wall as the mages unleashed spell after spell of destruction. With the sun at their backs, the pair observed the bandits scrambling to respond to their furious attacks. At first they stayed behind the walls, shooting the occasional arrow, but then they burst out of the gate, shouting insults at the mages. In a blast of fire, two bandits were incinerated and fell limp to the ground, but the remaining four pressed the attack. Two of the mages fell quickly to axe and sword. The last one, his magicka reserves drained, tried to turn and flee. As he ran, a particularly brutish looking Orc threw himself on top of him, and sunk his axe deep into his back. Satisfied, the bandits began to walk back to the camp.

"Now's our chance. Quickly, up!" Strid'r's voice of authority told Fraener all he needed to know, and he obeyed without question. He drew his bow, and aimed at the big Orc's back. With a silent prayer to Ysmir, he loosed his arrow. The aim was true, and the arrow clanked off the orc's armor. He fell forward, but quickly regained himself as he searched out the offending party. Unfortunately, his ability to search was compromised when a second arrow flew straight into his eye, conveniently separating his soul from his body. Two of the remaining bandits stayed behind the walls, while one, a particularly nasty looking Nord, charged out.

Strid'r was already there. The Nord lifted his heavy warhammer high above his head, a powerful voice that shook Strid'r's very bones. Deftly, the Redguard warrior sidestepped the swing, unsheathing his own sword in a single swing. The bandit caught it with the shaft of his weapon, narrowly avoiding a killing blow. He swung the hammer again, this time horizontally, but Strid'r ducked quickly under the strike. With no flourish, no bravado, Strid'r thrust his sword upward, the Ebony cleaving through the fur clothing with ease. The Nord's breath left him as his lungs were pierced, and he fell dead at Strid'r's feet.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you!"

The shout came from a young woman, some mix of races, who had emerged from the gate with a sword and shield in hand. Strid'r noticed the unsteady walk and the trembling hands. "You don't need to do this. Walk away. Don't make me kill you."

"Ha!" she shouted back at him. "I'd like to see you try!" Despite her nervousness, she charged into battle with great enthusiasm. Her tenacity was fierce, but that meant nothing without skill. It took less than a minute for Strid'r to catch her first mistake, sliding his sword up her exposed forearm. She screamed as he skinned her arm, dropping her sword in pain. She tried a last second bash with her shield, but Strid'r pushed it back with his free hand. The hilt of his sword connected with her head as he knocked her very firmly unconscious. She fell unceremoniously to the ground.

A thud behind him let him know that his partner had felled the bandit on the wall. Fraener himself arrived a few seconds later, plucking his arrows from the dead bandits' he had struck. Strid'r busied himself with looting the corpses he had killed. When they had both finished, they walked into the camp. A small smithy, and a large bloody wooden table adorned the center.

"You are skilled with the bow," Strid'r commented to Fraener. The Nord didn't turn, but smiled slightly at the compliment.

"Thanks. My father taught me how to hunt. People aren't too different from deer or bear. You're pretty good with the sword. Where'd you learn to fight?" Strid'r stopped briefly and a look passed his face. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"I learned to fight as all Hammerfell warriors do: in war."

"You don't mean the Great War, do you? You can't be _that_ old." Strid'r now stopped walking and turned to his Nord companion.

"For some, the Great War did not end thirty years ago. True, I was young when it started, but it lasted four more years in Hammerfell than in Cyrodiil. I fought in the last two years, as the Thalmor were beaten back. It's a fact the Empire likes to forget, her abandonment of my kind."

"I'm sorry," Fraener replied, a little awed. "I had not realized this."

"It's fine. Let's just go, finish this bounty."

"Aye, into Halted Stream Mine we go."

**A/N: Let me know how my first combat scene went! There'll be more to come, obviously. Oh, and this will cut at some of the deeper issues of the Skyrim dilemma: Stormcloak vs Imperial, the Thalmor, Talos, everything. And if anyone is looking for her, Lydia will be joining in later. Comment and subscribe, tell your friends, share my story! **


	4. Chapter 4 Clearing a Mine

**A/N: Thanks for the attention guys, seems I'm getting more followers by the day. This is more combat heavy, for those who liked it in the last chapter. And for Bloodmark Mentor, I wasn't sure how long to make the chapters as per fanfiction standard, but I think 2k words is a nice balance. So this one is significantly longer, as will be all the subsequent ones. And for JakMartheDarkWarrior, I haven't made up my mind yet for allegiances. Like I said, it's a complicated issue. Personally I've always been an Imperial kind of guy, but we'll have to see for Strid'r. If you guys find any lore mistakes just let me know, and as usual subscribe and comment!**

"Mead mead mead... kill 'em to get some beer every now and then? Stupid bees and their stupid honey." The rough bandit voice wafted up the mine tunnel, where Strid'r and Fraener stood listening. Slowly, the two began their descent into the mine, carefully listening to the bandit's voice grow louder as they drew closer. Strid'r looked around, kept his eyes alert for any sign of trouble. He slowed his approach further to examine the peculiar rock formation of the ceiling. Somehow, it didn't look natural, all the big rocks jutting out of the main bedstone like that. When he saw the rope that was inside of the rock cluster, he stopped dead, felt his heartrate quicken. _A trap._ He followed the rope with his eyes, watching as it draped down the wall and to the ground, buried under a thin layer of dirt, leading straight to-

"Oof!" a very surprised Fraener grunted as he was tackled to the ground. The young Nord threw the offending Redguard off of him, dusting himself off indigently. Before he could inquire as to exactly why his partner had thrown him so vigorously to the ground, Strid'r pointed to the pressure plate on the floor. Fraener realized with horror he had almost triggered the trap, bringing his expedition into a very short, very brutal ending. _Stupid, stupid!_ he mentally admonished himself. _Have you forgotten everything father taught you? "Know where your head is and your feet fall, and harm will seldom trouble you."_ Those were the simple words of advice his father had given him before the young Nord left for his first solo hunt. The world seemed... simpler back then. Before the Stormcloaks. Certainly before... well, events of late seemed to make life all the more confusing and dangerous place.

"What was that?" The bandit's alarm was now raised, suddenly becoming alert and aware that someone was here that shouldn't be. Fraener leapt to his feet, Strid'r not far behind. "Is someone there?" the bandit inquired, drawing his axe and approaching them slowly. Fraener notched an arrow on his bow, waiting...waiting...

_Twang_. Fraener's arrow pierced the bandit's shoulder, straight into a chink in his armor. Either from the mead he was just drinking or his battle rage, the bandit didn't show any sign of pain aside from a slight stagger. He switched the axe into his other hand as he turned to face Fraener. "Ha! Found you!" Heavy iron boots clanked on the ground as he broke into a dead-sprint towards the Nord archer. Rapidly closing the distance, he hefted the axe above his head, preparing to cleave Fraener's head from his body.

He never got the chance. There was a sudden shift in the wind, a metallic ring in the air and a hard impact to his chest. Next he knew he was on his back, staring at the bloody stump where his hand once was. He looked up to see a wicked blade in an arc for his neck, the Redguard wielding it with murder in his eyes. "Sovengarde..." the bandit whispered with his last breath, before his head was neatly severed from his body.

"You certainly let him get close enough didn't you?" Fraener remarked as he tossed the body for anything good. As he strapped on the dead bandit's leather bracers, a key fell out of his pocket.

"I had faith in my ability to stop a drunken bandit with an arrow wound," Strid'r replied lightly. A small grin had appeared on his face, betraying an enjoyment of the moment. In combat, in battle... any Redguard is in their element. "Grab that key, I see a gate up ahead, and I suspect we'll be needing it." Nodding, Fraener did so and followed the Redguard companion to the gate.

Careful of traps, the two made it further down the mine tunnel, until they reached a wooden platform overlooking the main cavern. There was a large amount of iron around them, with pickaxes scattered throughout, all signs that this was a functioning mine. Below them, two bandits were discussing the best way to cut into a mammoth corpse lying on the ground, a sheen of oil coating the floor around it (no doubt used to ease the transport of the dead mammoth). A third bandit, the chief, was on a wooden platform within a corner cut into the cavern. He paid no attention to the two down by the mammoth, instead seeming busied with a note of some sort. Fraener, impatient, pulled his bow out and began notching an arrow when he felt Strid'r's hand stop him.

Fraener followed where Strid'r's finger was pointing: towards the oil lamps on the cavern ceiling. They were held with old, frayed rope and filled with burning oils. Fraener shook his head at the stupidity of the bandits, but took aim at the center lamp. "Talos have mercy on your souls," he whispered as he loosed his arrow. It flew true, breaking the weak bonds on the lamp. It fell, crashing to the ground in a spat of flames. The oil on the ground instantly caught aflame, and the cavern was filled with screams of agony as the surprised bandits were roasted alive. The intensity of the flames forced Strid'r and Fraener to retreat away from the burning cavern. The heat was intense but quick: it only took a few minutes for it to burn itself out.

"Well, that was easy," Fraener quipped. Just as the words left his lips, a figure emerged from around the corner and entered the tunnel. His fur armor charred and his skin burned, the bandit chief, another Orc, pulled a wicked looking mace from his belt.

"No one... bests an Orc," he growled as he threw himself at the pair. His eyes were wild with rage as he swung his massive mace with skill. Strid'r threw himself back, but caught a glancing blow on his shoulder. The spikes ripped straight through his leather armor, drawing blood. Strid'r felt his energy suddenly leave him, his limbs becoming heavy and his body fatigued. The Orc grunted as he spun around, swinging his mace in a low arc towards Strid'r's face. Ducking quickly, the Redguard thrust his blade for a strike of his own. The Orc caught it on the hilt of his mace, and threw his massive weight behind the block. Strid'r helplessly watched his sword tumble out of his hand as his wrist was bent to the breaking point. He slipped and fell onto his rear, his back to the wall. Reaching into his armor, Strid'r pulled a dagger and threw it at the bandit chief. The dagger stuck into the Orc's abdomen, but did nothing to slow him. He lifted the mace above his head, and Strid'r closed his eyes. _Forgive me, brothers_ he thought as his hand fingered the small, hard pouch in his breast pocket.

"Heeeyah!" Strid'r felt the familiar touch of blood to his face as his eyes shot open. Half embedded into the side of the bandit chief was a battle axe, blood squirting from the severed flesh. The light left the Orc's eyes as he fell, limp. Standing above was Fraener, panting as he held the battle axe with both hands. "How... do you guys... do _that_... all day..." the Nord panted, "the blood, the guts... it's disgusting. I think I'll stick... to my bow... in future." The Nord collapsed onto the ground, his body succombing to fatigue. "Damn thick skin, Orcs."

Strid'r felt mirth from within him, and unleashed a hearty, Hammerfell laugh at the Nord's observation. After a few moments, Fraener joined in. It had been a long time since Strid'r laughed. He didn't think he could, but somehow this Nord brought it out of him. The two laughed for a few more minutes before collecting themselves. Strid'r picked up the dead Orc's mace. Instantly he felt energy thrumming, the enchantment binding to the user's lifeforce. _Stamina drain_, he thought, _of course. I'll have to be more careful in future._ He'd seen his fair share of enchantments in Hammerfell, but they were much rarer. The Redguards had a deep hatred of all things magical, as they were the tools of the cowardly.

"Hey, check it out!" Strid'r turned and looked down from the platform onto the charred floor. Down below, Fraener had picked up one of the unburned mammoth tusks. "For my fair lady back in the city!" he declared, shoving the heavy thing in his backpack. Strid'r chuckled as he came down to the main floor.

"You were serious about that promise, weren't you?"

"To Ysolda? Surely," the Nord replied as he hefted the bag onto his back. "Life is generally cold and brutal here in Skyrim. If I can spend some of that time helping a pretty woman, then it at least doesn't seem so cold." Walking carefully over the charred corpses of the bandits, the two walked onto the chief's quarter.

Fraener turned to examine the chest, while Strid'r tossed the desk. Atop it, the Redguard found a book labeled "Spell Tome: Transmute Mineral Ore". He skimmed a few pages, all on the process of using magic to turn iron into gold. It was a subject he had no depth of knowledge in, and so he closed the book and put it into his bag. "Looks like they were trying to turn the iron they mined into gold," he said his companion, who was rummaging through the chest.

"Woah," Fraener said as he pulled an item out of the chest. "Check this out," he said. Strid'r examined the bow in his hand. It was a pale gold hue, light and flexible. Fraener gave a few test pulls on the string, feeling it respond to the pressure with ease. His hands fit into the bindings easily, giving him an easy grip. "It's light as a feather," he added with awe.

"It's Elven," Strid'r replied, "looks of Valenwood origin. Finer marksmen would be hard to find in all of Tamriel. Their bows are equally existitue. It's a good find."

"Aye," Fraener replied, still going over the bow with his hands. "My pa always told me about the wood Elves, how they could shoot a bird out of the sky at over two hundred paces. He said their bows sung like a choir when they fired off a volley."

"Your father know many wood Elves?" Strid'r asked. He could see the muscles in his partner's neck tighten up.

"He got to know them... very well." He offered nothing more, and Strid'r let it drop. The two walked back up towards the mine entrance, after picking up as many septims as they could find. When they at last emerged, night had fallen on Skyrim.

"No use trying to get back to the city tonight," Strid'r said as he motioned for the bed rolls the bandits had used. "You get some sleep, I'll take the first watch."

"Well, if you insist..." Fraener replied, throwing his bag on the ground next to the bedroll. He quickly crawled in, becoming sound asleep just a few minutes. Strid'r hauled himself onto the watch tower, alert for any movement or sound that could indicate the bandits coming back. When he was sure Fraener was asleep, he reached into his armor and pulled out the pouch. Pulling the drawstrings open, his face became bathed in a green light. He pulled the pouch closed and returned it to his place within his armor, and resumed his night watch.  
><em>Soon, my brothers. Soon.<em>

**A/N: bit of growth on both characters, hope you enjoyed! Any tips or criticisms, be sure to comment. It makes my day to get that email saying that people have commented on my story. Also a return to the storyline will be coming next chapter, so be ready. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5 Jarls, Wizards and Bards

**A/N: Okay, so this chapter was actually a pain to write, just because I had to make sure the dialogue was right for the whole Jarl conversation. This will pretty much stick to the main storyline. It may strike as a bit boring, just because there's no combat, but Bleak Falls Barrow is next, so stay tuned. Anyway, comment and subscribe, let me know what you think!**

"What is the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors." The very agitated, very serious looking Dunmer woman had a sword in one hand and lightning in the other: something the two guests were uncomfortable having directed at them. They stood in the grand chamber of the Jarl's palace, Dragonsreach. Impressive did not even begin to describe the sheer enormity of the building. The Jarl's throne was at the front of a massive hearth which warmed the entire building, with rooms abutting left and right. The great longtables were filled with food, no doubt for entertaining dignitaries and the local palace inhabitants. The Jarl himself sat upon the throne, his regal apparel making him all the more impressive. Of course, the legion of guards patrolling all over the palace didn't hurt the image.

"I, uh," Fraener stammered, the young Nord becoming very distracted by the deadly looking sparks in the housecarl's hand.

"We're here to complete a bounty," Strid'r offered smoothly. "And I believe my friend here has a message to relay to the Jarl."

"Hmph. Figures you were sellswords," the Dunmer replied as she put her sword away and dispelled the lightning. Her accent was very heavy, refined, of clear Morrowind origin. "The Jarl is too busy to see you right now. You can try again later or make an appointment." She raised her hand to summon guards, but was stopped by a command from the Jarl.

"It's alright, Irileth. Let them approach." Irileth the housecarl obediently stepped aside, gesturing towards the throne.

"No sudden moves," she whispered in a low, dangerous voice as they passed. Fraener bowed his head slightly at being in the presence of the Jarl. In his whole life, he had never once met anyone of nobility or royalty, but had always been told to respect those who hold such titles or rank.

_That's not true anymore_, he thought suddenly. _I met the Jarl of Windhelm, didn't I?_ He pushed the thought out of his head for the time being, business at hand needed to be dealt with. "Now, you said something about a bounty?" Fraener looked up, realized the Jarl was addressing him. The Jarl looked to be more or less middle aged, and had a certain presence of intelligence and strength. The axe at his belt implied a certain level of battle prowess.

"Yes my lord. The bandit chief of Halted Stream Camp has been slain." Not knowing what to do, Fraener bowed his head slightly again.

"Excellent, you've done us a great service. Speak to Proventus, my steward, to get your reward." Fraener hadn't noticed the Imperial standing to the Jarl's side. He was by no one's measure a warrior, his hands more equipped for quill and paper than sword and shield. The man nodded his head when Fraener made eye contact, but deferred towards the Jarl, waiting for the audience to finish. "Now, your... companion mentioned a message?"

"Yes, from Alvor of Riverwood. A dragon has attacked Helgen." The motion in the room stopped. The various wandering guards came to a dead halt, Irileth and Proventus both stiffening. The Jarl maintained his composure, but unease was betrayed in his eyes.

"We have heard rumors trickling in, but nothing solid. Alvor though, he's the blacksmith in town, yes? Not prone to flights of fancy. You're sure it was a dragon, not just a Stormcloak raid gone wrong?"

"Yes, it was a dragon. It completely destroyed Helgen, and from what I saw was headed this way."

The Jarl sat up straighter, shot a look at Proventus. "By Ysmir, Irileth was right!" He turned fully to Proventus, addressing the uncomfortable looking steward. "What do you say now Proventus, shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

"My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. If there's a dragon lurking in the mountains it is in the most immediate danger," Irileth declared as she walked towards the throne. Proventus's voice was an edge close to frantic as he stepped down from next to the Jarl to standing near Fraener. The Nord felt a tug on his back, and turned to see Strid'r urging him to step back from the Jarl's platform.

"The Jarl of Falkreath will see that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him! We should not-"

"Enough!" The Jarl's shouted command thundered throughout the hall, the powerful Nord voice bringing his two advisors to silence. "I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once!"

The Dunmer woman saluted. "Yes, my Jarl." She trotted away, gathering several palace guards before leaving the palace.

"If you don't mind, I'll return to my duties." Proventus didn't wait for an answer as he meekly slinked away.

"That would be best," the Jarl replied coldly to his steward's back. He then looked back to address Fraener and Strid'r. "Well done. You two sought me out on your own initiative, informed me of a grave danger to my hold and brought me a completed bounty. Don't worry about Proventus: I'll send a guard to collect your payment. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it. There's something from my armoury I can give; you look like you could have some use for it." He gestured his hand and called a guard over. After a brief whispered conversation, the guard ran off again, heading up the stairs to the left of the throne. The Jarl looked at Fraener and Strid'r for a moment, before thoughtfully asking "what brings you to Skyrim, Redguard? Here to make your fortune in this unfortunate conflict?"

"I'm here on business," Strid'r replied, "but I needed a few more septims to get the ball rolling. Hence this bounty." The Jarl nodded, then turned to Fraener.

"And what of you? You're not from Whiterun, that much I know. How did you wind up in Helgen?"

"I," Fraener started, but then the entire events of the day before came crashing back to him. The treacherous mountain pass from Cyrodiil. Coming down right into the middle of an ambush, then his face being bashed in by an Imperial shield. He paused in his train of thought. Did he want to tell the Jarl about his near-execution? Would he be branded a criminal and summarily executed? The moment of fear passed when he saw the Jarl's expression. It was an understanding man. It was not the face of the Imperial Captain who send him to the block. No, it was akin to Hadvar's face, the man who apologized for his execution. "The Imperials were trying to cut my head off when the dragon attacked."

The Jarl seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Really? Well, you're certainly forthright about your criminal past. But it's not my business whom the Empire seeks to execute. How did you wind up at the headsman's block anyway?"

Fraener shrugged, becoming more comfortable with the Jarl. He was glad to have shared the burden with someone, and found himself taking a liking to the Jarl. "Wrong place at the wrong time. I was crossing the border and walked into an Imperial ambush."

"Oh? They were ambushing a bunch of Stormcloaks that far south?"

"Yes, among them was Ulfric Stormcloak. I think he was sending messengers to rally support from Nords outside Skyrim."

The Jarl's eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed at the mention of the rebel leader. "Ulfric? I should have known he'd be mixed up in all this. Lucky for you that Dragon attacked, I suppose." Just then the guard returned, catching his breath as he carried a small bag. "Ah here you are. Fine leather armor, studded too. You should be able to make good use of it, no?"

"Thank you, sir." He turned to Strid'r.

"I have nothing to give you except what I already owe you, Redguard. Here is payment for the completed bounty." Strid'r bowed as he received the coin purse. _One-hundred septims_, he thought. _Halfway there_. The Jarl stood now, began walking towards them. "You two seem to be able to handle yourselves well in combat. I might have a task for individuals of your... particular talents. You will of course be compensated. Come with me, and we'll go see my court wizard, Farengar."

The pair followed the Jarl down the steps and into a side room, where a lanky man clad in mage's robes was pouring over a desk. "Farengar." The man muttered to himself as he scribbled a rune onto the paper he was working on. "Farengar!" Balgruuf said much louder. The mage looked up stumbling back as he let out a string of excuses. "Yes, it's all right Farengar," the Jarl assured the man. "I've found some people willing to help you with your project."

"Hmm? Project?" the court wizard said, confused. "Ah, my research into the dragons, of course! Um, yes, I could use someone to go fetch me something."

"There's more to this 'fetching', isn't there," Strid'r asked bluntly. The mage cocked his head at the Redguard.

"Well, when I say 'fetch', what I really mean is delve into an ancient Nordic burial crypt to find a stone which may or may not be there."

"What is this stone we're looking for?"

"Oh, it's complicated, ancient. Something called the 'Dragonstone'. It's supposed to be a map of ancient burial sites for dragons. I am hoping to glean some information from their corpses to - ah, but it's all over your heads I'm sure."

"Just tell us where it is," Fraener replied tensely.

"Right to business, good. It's in Bleak Falls Barrow. Just north of Riverwood. Go into the barrow, find the stone, probably in the main cavern, and bring it back to me. Simplicity itself." They thanked the wizard, who immediately returned to his work. The Jarl had already left, retiring to his chambers. The pair left Dragonsreach, descending off the mountain to a bustling city at midday.

"I'm sorry," Fraener said suddenly, "I didn't even ask if you wanted to accompany me on this. It'll probably be a fair bit more dangerous than our last task, so I understand if you don't want to continue with-"

He was cut short by the Redguard's hand. "I am still a bit short on gold for what I need. So, at least until I get enough, I'll stick with you." Fraener smiled and clapped the man on his back.

"Good. I honestly didn't want to go into a burial crypt alone. Gives me the creeps." Strid'r smiled as they continued to walk down the stone steps. They were interrupted by a shout from down on the main level. There, a Nord wearing yellow robes was shouting as he raised his hands, to no one in particular. Strid'r and Freaner both stopped to listen to him.

"We are _maggots, _WRITHING in the _filth_ of our own corruption. While you have ascended from the dung of mortality, and now walk among the stars!" Fraener paused to listen, but Strid'r snorted and walked on. After a moment, Fraener caught up to the Redguard, as they walked down into the marketplace.

"No love of Talos in you?" Fraener asked curiously. Strid'r shook his head.

"No love of _priests_," he replied. "A few too many priests in this world if you ask me." Fraener nodded and didn't press the issue. They were about to resume walking when a certain Nord woman walked past, her blue dress catching Fraener's eye.

"Ysolda!" he called out, having forgotten about the tusks in his bag. He rolled his sore shoulders. _Well, maybe not completely forgotten_. From his bag he carefully pulled out the tusk, passing it to Ysolda, who was looking very surprised.

"You actually got one! Thank you so much. Here, let me show you a few tips about how to get a fair deal from a merchant. Don't want a shifty trader getting the better of you in a barter!" Fraener went off to follow Ysolda, giving Strid'r a shrug. Despite a deep sense in his gut that time was critical, Strid'r simply replied with a grin and a wink. A rumble in his stomach let him know he hadn't eaten in some time. He walked over to a pleasant looking woman selling fruits and vegetables at a small stall.

"Hello," he said pleasantly. "How much for some produce?"

"Well, a polite customer. That's a rarity around here. Grab something and I'll tell you how much."

"Someone giving you trouble?" Strid'r asked as he picked up a tomato, a leek and some cheese.

"Ugh, seems every male in the damn city. Ten septims. But that bard is the worst. Keeps telling me how he's going to 'conquer' and 'tame' me. They just don't get it. My daughter is the only person in my life. She's all that matters to me."

"I can certainly pass along your wishes to him," he replied, passing his coins over to her. "I can be.. persuasive."

"Hey, you want to try and talk some sense into him, be my guest. He's usually up at the Bannered Mare. Name's Carlotta Valentia, by the way."

"Strid'r. I was thinking I'd more knock some sense into him." Strid'r gave a quick grin as he walked towards the inn.

"Now, you see the trick is to watch for the eyebrows. Most men can't tell a lie without a small eyebrow twitch of some sort, so it helps if - hey, are you even listening to me?"

"Mmhm, eyebrows, right?" Ysolda laughed as Fraener sat up straighter, letting go a chuckle of his own. "Sorry, I'm easily distracted."

"Well, it's hardly on my head if you don't use my reward. That's on you." She laughed again, leaning back against the wooden arch over their bench. "So, where do you hail from, Fraener Frost-Crown? You're certainly not from Whiterun."

"No, definitely not Whiterun. I was born in a small village near the Cyrodriil border. Hunters and fishers we were, roaming all over the mountains down south. I guess we were in Falkreath hold, but we never saw a guard nor expected any. Too remote, too distant. My father was a hunter, my mother a fisher. We move around a lot, but always stuck together. Until_..._"_ well, you really should have been there. _His voice caught in his throat as he stopped, memories not distant enough flooding his vision. The harsh words, the painful decision. The ache in his bones when he returned, to find it all just... gone. His whole world just unmade before his eyes. Then the fire..

He was brought back by a gentle hand on his. "It's okay. We've all got stories like that." He looked up at her, smiling now, and thanked her for the lesson. "It was the least I can do. Whenever you're in Whiterun, look me up."

Fraener said goodbye and headed on down to the market level, searching for his companion. The Redguard emerged from the Bannered Mare, rubbing his hand, that was balled into a fist. "Carlotta, I don't think Mikael will be giving you much trouble anymore." The woman smiled, thanking him and passing a basket of food.

"I didn't think anyone could talk sense into that bard." Strid'r smiled, said something about fists being much more effective communicators. Fraener caught up to his friend, just as two guards approached.

"Looks like trouble," Fraener said under his breath. Strid'r turned to face the guards as they got closer, their masks hiding their faces. They parted slightly, allowing them to see the smaller man behind. He was holding his nose, keeping it from spilling any more blood than what was already on his tunic.

"That's the one!" his nasal voice said as he pointed with his free hand to Strid'r. "Arrest him for assault!"

"Well, did you assault him?" one of the guards asked bluntly.

"We agreed to a brawl," Strid'r explained. "I tried to reason with him, but he would hear none of it. He tried to best me in a brawl, one that we both agreed to. It didn't go his way, something anyone in the inn will tell you."

"You didn't mention that part, bard," the guard said to the bleeding man.

"He's a foreigner! Just arrest him on... on... oh I don't know, just arrest him for something."

"We can't just arrest him, he's done nothing wrong."

"Nothing wrong?" the Nord replied indignantly, "my nose is broken you half-troll idiot, and you say nothing is wrong?"

"Okay, let's get you out of here," the other guard said as his partner pulled the man back to the inn. "Sorry about that. But don't think you can just go throwing punches in my city, Redguard. Keep your hands to yourself and don't break the peace." Without waiting for a response, he walked away. Strid'r shrugged his shoulders at Fraener when he asked. Together, the two headed for the gate. Fraener was trying on his new armor when Strid'r stopped in front of Warmaiden.

"Oh, right. Debts to be paid." He pulled his coin purse out, paid his dues and thanked the woman.

Together, they left the city, and made for Riverwood.

A/N: Okay, so beating up Mikael was just fun. Sorry if it sort of cut out at the end, but it was 2 in the morning and I just didn't have the energy to write _another_ dialogue scene. A bit more backstory emerged on Fraener, and we see the start of a beautiful friendship. Anyway, Bleak Falls Barrow comes next, hopefully I'll be able to get that written in the next couple of days (it ought to be a long one). Thanks for reading, share it, comment and subscribe!


	6. Chapter 6 A Shopkeeper's Bargain

**A/N: Okay, sorry this took a bit longer than expected. I'm afraid I didn't quite make it to Bleak Falls Barrow yet, but it will come, I promise. Thanks again to the fans of the story, and to the casual readers. Like, follow, subsribe and as always comment away! Let me know how I'm doing. And to my Omegle friend who wanted to be put into the story, here you are.**

"Ah, kinsman. How my heart soars to look upon a brother Bosmer. What can I help you with today?" The Altmer entering the store winced at the Valenwood accent. Infuriating people, the Bosmer are. Always friendly, no thought to propriety or culture. Dirty savages who eat each other in trees. Disgusting.

"Actually," the man replied as he threw his hood back, "I'm a High Elf .I was hoping you could direct me towards someone. A friend of mine came through here, a Redguard fellow." Elrindir's brow furrowed as he paused for thought. The lanky elf casually scanned the rest of the ramshackle excuse for a hunting tavern. A Dunmer drowning herself in mead. A posh looking human and his wife. Hmph. As if they had any sort of right to act superior towards... anyone. Gods they are infuriating.

"Hm, well the only Redguards I know of were kicked out several days ago. Unpleasant folks, one of them was caught sneaking into the city at night. They were sent to... Nazeem, do you recall where the Jarl sent those Allik'r fellows?"

The darker skinned human looked up from his tankard. "Ah yes, I was there when the Jarl gave the order, you know. He sent them to Rorikstead. Said he couldn't give them refuge in his city if they weren't going to obey the laws. My idea, of course. Not that Avenicci would ever acknowledge that." Satisfied, he returned to his ale.

"Well, there you have it. They were sent to Rorikstead. It's about a days walk West of here-"

"Yes, yes, I know where it is," the Altmer man interrupted impatiently. "Are you sure that's where they were headed?"

"Oh yes, quite confident." Elrindir paused thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, I do recall my brother mentioning seeing a Redguard in the Bannered Mare just yesterday..." From the far side of the room came a cough, the Dunmer woman interrupting the wood elf.

"He was just a straggler, Elrindir. He should be in Rorikstead by now, he left yesterday." The Bosmer shrugged.

"Thank you for your time," the Altmer said with a cheap smile before leaving the shop. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he walked back onto the streets, passing the sign saying "The Drunken Huntsman" and walking swiftly towards the main marketplace.

"Jenassa, my brother didn't say anything about that man being Allik'r," Elrindir admonished. "I daresay you've sent that Altmer on the wrong path."

"That was the idea, you thick skulled elf," Jenassa replied tersely as she grabbed her gear from the table. "That elf was as Thalmor as you can get. And if the Thalmor are looking for someone, it's just about never a good thing. The trip to Rorikstead should delay him at least two days." Throwing her pack over her shoulder she checked her arrows and her bowstring.

"Where are you going?"

"To find this Redguard," she replied. "It doesn't matter who he is, anyone who pissed off the Thalmor this badly deserves to know they're being tracked. If I leave now I should be able to catch up to him before he gets too far."

"Well, happy travels then." The Dunmer paused at the door.

"Just don't get yourself tangled up with the Thalmor if he comes back."

"Uh... I think... that mountain? No, wait... I don't... I don't remember seeing that tower over there..."

"You have no idea where we are, do you?" Strid'r threw his pack to the ground when his companion shook his head. "Told you that 'shortcut' was a terrible idea. Look, it's getting late. Let's just bed down here for the night, we'll make for Riverwood in the morning." The Nord meekly accepted, his neck flush with embarrassment. He could have sworn this was the same mountain pass he saw when he was coming from Riverwood... but then again, he was distracted looking over his shoulder, expecting that dragon to emerge from the clouds at any time.

They made a small fire as night descended. The hours passed as they took turns keeping watch, and eventually it was the wee hours of the morning. It was Fraener's turn to keep watch, but he was terribly tired. His eyes started to droop, his breath slow. Slowly, his mind started to drift, and he found himself wandering a dream. He was alone in a huge valley, a small path cut through the woods. A shriek went up above him, then a thunderous roar he knew too well. The black dragon flew overhead, then descended into the valley. It started to speak, some strange tongue Fraener had never heard before. It roared at him again, and Fraener could feel the strength in his bones, helpless, hopeless to fight, the power of old... of a god... a destroyer of worlds... his spirit fought but was drowning, too strong...too strong...

Then the pressure let up, and a figure clad in white armor jumped between the dragon and Fraener. He opened his mouth, and a powerful force shot out, blasting back the dragon. A golden sword in his hand, the warrior blasted the dragon again. It fled, flying up into the clouds again. The warrior turned to Fraener, his golden eyes making contact before the Nord awoke with a start, back at his camp.

When he opened his eyes, he was briefly blinded by the fire. When it faded he saw two things: Strid'r sleeping peacefully, and a furry hand reaching into his pocket. Reacting swiftly, Fraener grabbed a nearby rock and threw it at the furry form, making solid contact. The Khajiit stopped, turned to hiss at Fraener, then leaped to its feet. Strid'r stumbled awake to find the Khajit standing above him. The Redguard immediately lunged at the feline's legs, but the cat was too fast, dodging the hands as he jumped away...

Right into Fraener's well-timed tackle. Pulling a dagger from his belt, Fraener pushed it up to the Khajiit's neck. "One move and I'll slit your throat," he warned as his captive stopped struggling beneath him.

"Ah, J'Ruq is rather proud of his throat. He would like it very much if you would not cut it with your very sharp knife." Strid'r walked over to the pair, the cat on his back with Fraener physically restraining him.

"Give me a reason not to, you thieving little cat." Fraener pressed the dagger closer against his throat.

"Riverwood! J'Ruq knows the way to Riverwood, he has been there many times. I can show you, yes, because you are lost, yes?" Fraener glanced at Strid'r, who merely shrugged in response.

"How do you know we're lost?" he asked sharply.

"J'Ruq has very good ears, and Nord-man does not speak very softly."

"You did get us lost," he commented. The Nord snorted as he grabbed some rope from his bag.

"Okay, you will show us the way to Riverwood tomorrow. Until then, we're going to be keeping an eye on you. And you stay on this rope." He tied the rope around his neck, and tied it to a nearby tree.

"Ah, do you have something to eat? J'Ruq is quite hungry. He was going to grab some food, but saw that dark-man had a jewel pouch. He couldn't pass up such an opportunity." Strid'r's hand immediately shot up to his chest, grasping for the pouch. He felt it still there, as well as the firm object within.

"How did you know I had this?" Strid'r asked low, menacingly.

J'Ruq shrugged. "It is easy for one who knows what to look for, to find it. That, and you kept grabbing it in your sleep. J'Ruq knows when someone has something valuable, yes. So he guesses it is jewels, and you tell him he is right. J'Ruq is proud of this skill."

"If I find your hand anywhere near this," Strid'r replied dangerously, "I'm going to cut it off, then report you."

"J'Ruq keeps his promises. Besides, he is bound by the rope. How can he get it?"

"Fine. But I'm watching you." Strid'r threw a log onto the fire. "You head to bed, Fraener. I'll watch this one til morning." The Nord agreed, and in a few minutes was sleeping in his bed roll. One eye on the Khajiit (who Strid'r didn't believe was asleep), Strid'r allowed himself a moment to reflect. _That was too close,_ he thought. _I've come too far to lose it now._ Suddenly, the little trip to Bleak Falls Barrow didn't seem like such a great idea. He should have just found another paying job to make money. Instead, now he's off traipsing around with some hero. _I've got to see this through though. I gave him my word to find this dragonstone. Then, that'll be the end of it._

Dawn approached swiftly. Quickly and quietly they broke down camp, Strid'r throwing dirt onto the fire after stamping it out. The two companions were being led by their prisoner, still bound to the leash. Along the way, J'Ruq shared with his hosts many stories of his travels, nearly all concerned with his art of theft and heist, ending invariable with his epic escape from the city with the law enforcement on his heels. "Doesn't it ever seem wrong to you, to steal stuff?"

J'Ruq looked back at the Nord, seeming surprised. "The poor steal. The rich have what is worth stealing. J'Ruq does not fight these laws of nature. His life without stealing would have been long and hard, living and working and dying at the sugar fields in Elsweyr. So he plies his trade as a thief, stealing in the night and selling by the day. The life has it's advantages, but it does have pitfalls. Younger J'Ruq saw many prisons from the inside, although few he could not escape from."

"But what of your brethren who ply their trade as merchants, wandering Tamriel? Is that not a more honorable route." The Khajiit smiled.

"That would depend on your sense of honor. Is it better to be stolen from by a shadow, or by a tongue? The merchants are thieves of a different kind, only they convince you that the theft was not theft at all. But it is all the same to J'Ruq: they take more coin than needed, just a J'Ruq takes a little off the top of the wealthy." Tiring of the Khajiit, Fraener did not respond. Instead, they walked in silence until they crested a small hill. "Ah, Riverwood is ahead." Indeed, smoke could be seen from the mountain, and small sounds carried up the valley. "J'Ruq has fulfilled his end of the bargain to satisfaction, yes?"

"I don't know," Strid'r said wryly, "I could use a new rug. What do you think Fraener?"

"Hm," the Nord replied, "Maybe a new hat for me?" J'Ruq's eyes bulged and he started to sputter incoherent pleadings.

"Enough," Strid'r commanded. "We will let you go, but if I see you again don't expect to get off so easily. And give me all the lockpicks you have."

"J'Ruq does not have any lockpicks," he shot back instantly.

"Mind if I take a look?" Strid'r pulled a dagger from his belt and stepped closer to the Khajiit. The feline man immediately raised his hands.

"Ah, that is not necessary," he said quickly, emptying his pockets of a dozen lockpicks. Strid'r collected them up, then cut the ropes loose.

"J'Ruq thanks you for your hospitality and food. He wishes you best of luck for whatever you look for." With that, he turned and moved down the valley, headed northward. The Redguard and Nord followed the river, until they came upon a small elevated platform, two guards standing atop. They eyed the newcomers, but said nothing. The two passed under the platform, onto the main thoroughfare of the tiny hamlet. A sign proclaiming "Sleeping Giant Inn" adorned the first building; beyond that was a mill and the "Riverwood Trader".

"How are you on arrows?" Strid'r asked, eyeing his friend's quiver.

"Not as well as I'd like. Those bandits didn't return them in the highest of quality." Agreed, the two walked down to the Riverwood Trader and opened the door.

Right into an argument. "I said _no!_ No theatrics, no adventures, no thief chasing!" The very agitated looking man behind the desk rubbed his temples as he argued with the young Cyrodriilian woman on the other side. She looked equally as frustrated.

"Well, what are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it!" she shot back, her hands settling on her hips.

"We're done talking about this," the man replied as he gritted his teeth. Suddenly he turned to see Strid'r and Fraener standing just inside the doorway, standing awkwardly. "Oh customers, uh, sorry you had to hear that. I don't know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open for business."

"Did something happen?" Strid'r asked after Fraener put an order for arrows in. Camilla ran off to go fill it, getting supplied from the back room.

"Yes, we did have a bit of a break in. Don't worry, we've still got plenty of merchandise and coin. Robbers were only after one thing. An ornament, solid gold. It's in the shape of a dragon's claw."

"Perhaps we could get it back for you?" Strid'r inquired. The man's eyes lit up and his face betrayed relief, if a bit of shock.

"You could? There's some gold coming in from my last shipment, it's yours if you can get the claw. I'm Lucan, by the way." Strid'r's mind raced after he gave the man his own name and shook his hand, thinking that this could be the break he needs to pay that Breton the money. "Most bandits and thieves around here hole up in Bleak Falls Barrow, so that's a good place a start."

"Bleak Falls Barrow?" Fraener asked, "what a coincidence, we happen to be going there anyway." Lucan shivered.

"Why would you want to go there? It's filled with undead things, ancient Nords who still walk around. Sometimes, people say you can hear them from here, but the guards tell us it's just the wind in the mountains. Still, I'd not go there if I can avoid it. But you're headed there anyway, so do me a favor when you catch those thieves: teach 'em not to steal from Lucan Valeruis." The girl, Camilla, returned with a quiver full of arrows for Fraener. They paid their money and started to leave.

"Wait!" Camilla called out. "Let me show you the way to Bleak Falls Barrow."

"Camilla," Lucan warned.

"Oh hush, I'm not going with them. Just showing them the way."

"Fine, but no further than the bridge just past town." Without another word, they left the shop and headed down the road. It didn't take long to reach the bridge.

"Bleak Falls Barrow is just over that hill," she said, pointing towards a snow covered ridge. "That place always gave me the creeps. Be careful up there." They both thanked her and said goodbye as they trudged up the path into the mountains.

_Azura preserve me_. Jenassa's silent prayer was out of character for her, never one to appeal to anyone's aid, but she was desperate. She forced herself to stand up, only to fall down again in pain. How that damn Altmer had figured out he was on the wrong path was beyond her, but he certainly caught up quick. Him and the legion of Thalmor soldiers accompanying him. There were a lot of gaps in exactly how they managed to find her, but she didn't have time to worry about that. She knew it was only a matter of time before they found her or she succombed to the wound. Even her strongest poultice didn't help: leave it to the Thalmor to summon weapons from Oblivion.

She propped herself up against a tree, praying again that she hold out just a little while longer until she could figure out this mess. A figure darted out from behind a tree. The Dunmer weakly grabbed her sword, pointing it unsteady at the direction of whomever was darting around, the effort making her dizzy. "Come at me you Altmer son of a bitch," she said, coughing out the last few words.

"J'Ruq is not an Altmer," the figure replied. "He does not like the Altmer in general, and hopes you are not tied in with the group he slipped by."

"You... Khajiit?" Janessa asked weakly.

"Yes, J'Ruq, acquirer of goods, master of locks, and of swift hands. You are wounded, I have something that might help."

"Nevermind that," the Dunmer replied, the setting sun in her eyes. "I need you to listen and listen carefully..."

"Fan out into the woods," the Thalmor Justicator ordered to the Thalmor soldiers. "Find her and bring her to me, _alive_. Any who bring further harm to her shall face my wrath. Now go!" The dozen or so High Elves immediately took off into the woods, summoning swords or bows as they spread into the treeline.

"Why the obsession with the Dunmer?" a cloaked figure asked. Behind the Justicator was a hooded Altmer, his voice smooth and sly.

"Master Hirhune," the other elf said in a surprised tone, "I... I didn't know to expect you."

"Noted," he moved on smoothly, "but answer my question." There was no option or the illusion of choice in his words.

"Of course. This one deliberately set me on the wrong trail. If not for that greedy

Breton shopkeeper, I might have lost a day chasing the wrong Redguard. If she's working with him, she could be of valuable information."

"Your wise prudence was always a great asset," the superior Thalmor replied. "But this is of critical importance for our plans. You must not fail me here. Find me that stone, or I will find someone who can."

"Yes my lord," the Thalmor replied, bowing slightly. In a wisp of the breeze, Hirhune was gone.

**A/N: That's right, the Thalmor are back and just as bad as ever. J'Ruq was supposed to be a small character, but I've got bigger plans for him now. I hope you enjoyed it, Bleak Falls Barrow next (I mean it this time!) Comment and subscribe!**


	7. Chapter 7 A Draugr's House

**A/N: So, very sorry this took so long to write! Between falling ill and watching the Olympics, the time got away from me. But it's all finished, at this late hour! This is a long one, so for those who wanted longer chapters this one topped out at 11 pages. So enjoy. Bleak Falls Barrows is a well written part, so I only hope I didn't totally butcher it. Anyway, subscribe and comment, you guys know the drill. Also, if you have reddit I know I would appreciate you posting this. It may be presumptuous, but really I'm just trying to reach a wider audience.**

Bleak Falls Barrow was by no measure a small place. Fraener remembered Hadvar pointing it out on the way down from Helgen. From there, it was an impressive looking monument. From where they stood now, it was even more so. The massive superstructure that made up the outside arch was easily thirty or forty feet high, and despite the ancient appearance showed little signs of decay. The black stone that the arches and the building itself was made of gave the burial crypt an aptly evil feeling.

The hike from town was several miles, a distance that Fraener and Strid'r covered in just under two hours. There was a nip in the air as they reached the higher levels of the small mountain, and Fraener was soon longing for the warmer breeze of the valley. He was glad he had on the fur boots. Strid'r, on the other hand, was ill-prepared, unaccustomed to so much physical activity in such cold weather. "How do you stand it?" Strid'r gasped as they reached a small rise and rested. Ahead, a sentry tower marked the outside perimeter of Bleak Falls Barrow.

"The cold? I dunno, never really bothered me. Just that Nord blood I suppose." He shrugged, then brought his hand under his eyes to deflect the snowglare. "Looks like it's just past that rock outcropping. You ready?" Strid'r straightened himself and touched the hilt of his sword.

"I'm ready." The two made their way past the rock cropping, now coming into the full view of the barrow.

"That's close enough." The two spun on their heels towards the sound of the voice. The bandit woman held an axe in her hand and pointed it dangerously at the pair. "Just hand over your valuables, and you will be left unharmed." She motioned with her free hand to the three other bandits closing in. Each was a hefty Nord man, carrying very sharp, very mean looking axes and swords. They were closing rapidly, would soon be within striking distance.

"How's your shot on the woman?" Strid'r whispered to Fraener in rapid fire.

"Clear the big one between you and her," the Nord replied quickly, falling back-to-back with his companion, "and I should be able to get a shot." Strid'r nodded ever so slightly, his hand sliding to his hilt as Fraener's reached behind him for his bow.

"On three. One." Strid'r's eyes narrowed to slits as he saw only the target in front of him, the Nord male with a bulky greatsword. He had it nowhere near the ready, keeping it low and flush against his body. "Two." Fraener fingered his quiver, his finger sliding over the arrow. His other hand grabbed the bottom half of his bow, unsnapping the leather that held it to his back. "THREE!"

Strid'r spun in a full arc as he unsheathed his sword, bringing its full force towards his very surprised foe. The blade whistled as the Ebony sliced through the air. With a squelch, it collided with his neck, cleaving flesh as it quickly decapitated the man. His lifeless body fell to the ground as Strid'r ducked down, waiting for the whistle of an arrow to go overhead. He immediately felt vulnerable, his whole body crouched to the ground the way it was. Silently, he begged Fraener to take the shot well.

And he did not disappoint. The close range combined with the adrenaline of the moment gave the Nord a perfect shot when he turned one-hundred eighty degrees round. The steel-tipped arrow flew straight through the air, striking the bandit woman in her throat. She fell to the ground, choking on her own blood. But Fraener didn't have time to appreciate his handywork. He ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding an axe swing from one of the remaining bandits. The other one swung his axe on a low trajectory, one that Fraener had no chance of escaping. The Nord scrambled, but knew that there was nothing he could do to stop the ax.

The Steel on Ebony note rang through the air as Strid'r blocked the otherwise fatal blow. He sneered at the Nord, and smashed his fist into his cheek. The Redguard turned quickly to parry a blow from the other bandit while the struck one staggered to his feet. Strid'r suddenly realized he was caught between two very angry enemies, a place no warrior should ever be. He threw himself backwards as the two eagerly swung their axes as him. Instead of colliding with Strid'r, the two axes hit each other. The vibrating and grating contact forced one of the bandits to lose his grip.

It was the opportunity Strid'r was looking for. Without a hesitation, he pounced. The empty-handed bandit tried to hold up his fists as a way of blocking, but his fur gauntlets provided little resistance to the powerful blade. It cut through them easily, then slid between his ribs. The man fell, gripping his fatal wound while blood poured into the snow.

When Strid'r turned to face the final bandit, he found the man struggling to breath and sluggish. Sticking out of his fur armor was several arrows, some of which punctured quite deeply. Still, he raised his axe to attack Strid'r. The Redguard warrior sidestepped, and watched the man stumble and fall onto the ground. With a flourish, Strid'r brought the blade down into the man's back, puncturing his heart and sending him to Sovengarde. The bandits dispatched, Strid'r put away his sword, panting from the exertion.

"Here," Fraener passed him a green bottle as he walked back over from the perch he had been shooting from. "I found it on the bitchy woman." Strid'r nodded and took a drink. He felt the tiredness fade, the potion quickly revitalizing him. They rested for a moment longer, Fraener picking through the slain bandit's pockets. He pocketed their meager coins and few arrows, leaving the rest of their secondhand equipment. "Don't see a claw," he commented, looking over the dead bodies.

"Well, I guess that shopkeeper was wrong then," Strid'r said as he pulled himself up. "A shame." Fraener agreed with his assessment with a nod. The pair turned to the entrance to the barrow, walking up the steps. A cold wind bit into them, giving them cause to hurry towards the entrance. The massive door was heavy, but surprisingly pliable as it gave way to their pushing. The two slipped inside, and found themselves in a decently sized hall with tall ceilings. Here, the ancient stonework did not seem hold up as well, with a pillar crashed across the center.

Voices wafted through the room, prompting a slower, more stealthy approach by Strid'r and Fraener. Two dead skeevers, the massive rats that inhabit all manner of abandoned or dilapidated dwellings, adorned the front, with a badly mauled bandit corpse in between them. Fraener stepped behind a pillar while Strid'r moved to the shadowed wall.

"So, we're just supposed to sit here while Arvel runs off with that golden claw? Doesn't seem like a good plan to me." The bandit was pacing around the doorway into the barrow. His partner, a female Nord, was nonchalantly chewing on a piece of venison.

"Look, Bjorn _just _took off into the Barrow to keep an eye on him. Don't worry about it. Trust me, better to be in here than out on that freezing mountainside." The pacing nord stopped, nodded in agreement.

"Aye, that's Stendarr's truth. Just the skeevers to worry about." Strid'r caught his partner's eye, and motioned to the standing bandit. The young Nord nodded, quickly pulling out his bow. He knocked an arrow and waited. Strid'r took a second more to examine his surroundings, then jumped from his hiding place. His knee collided with the sitting Nord woman's face, sending her sprawling. The Redguard landed awkwardly on one leg, pulling his blade out as he fought to stabilize himself. Sneering, the pacing bandit drew his sword and started to arc it towards the vulnerable warrior. His arm only got halfway, however, before an arrow impacted his iron-clad chest. The shock sent him backwards, staggering into the wall. When he looked up to find the source, he felt another arrow puncture his thigh, striking at a weak spot. Before he could protest any further, a third arrow found his abdomen. His last vision before fading away was his partner being sliced open by the Redguard, her venison falling out of her hand and onto the floor.

Leaving the slain where they lay, Fraener and Strid'r moved on. The hallways they walked down were truly ancient, but nature was rapidly moving to reclaim her mountain. Vines broke through the stubborn rock in many places, and moss was universal across the floors and walls. Oddly, the fires were all lit, but they just attributed it to the bandits. The tunnels got narrower and steeper as they descended further into the mountain. Fraener started to get an eerie feeling, a ball in the pit of his stomach. Something about this place seemed to emanate energy... an energy he couldn't entirely grasp nor ignore.

They heard heavy clanking of iron boots ahead, so slowed their approach and ducked on either side of the doorway to the next room. Inside, a bandit (presumably the one who went into the barrow in search of the other one) was reaching for a level on the floor. He yanked on it hard, the old mechanism groaning but giving way. Instead of the blocked gate opening, there was a whistling as the trap was triggered. Arrows shot from concealed holes in the walls and ceiling, all aimed at the unfortunate soul standing at the level. The rapid fire trap left no time to dodge or move, the bandit quickly succombing to the multipe arrow wounds. His body lay on the ground, half wrapped around the lever.

"Well, let's try and avoid that outcome shall we?" Strid'r said as they walked into the room.

"Yes, lucky for us this unfortunate fellow happened to beat us here." The pair searched the room for any clue how to open the gate without dying a horrible death. "Hey, look over here. I think it's a puzzle." Strid'r walked over, observing the three pillars beside his companion.

"Hm, snake, fish and bird. There must be some combination of them to unlock the door. Maybe, something around Nordic myth? Hm, this is a burial crypt, so perhaps some sort of afterlife myth will be the key..." The Redguard continued his musing while Fraener examined the rest of the room. His eye fell upon the snake symbol on the ground. It was surrounded by rubble, so he followed the path back up to the perch it fell from.

"Strid'r," the young Nord said, pointing to the fallen symbol. "Snake Snake Fish."

"What? Does it have to do with the cycles of the moon?" Confused, Fraener just pointed up at the still intact symbols. "Oh, right... that would make more sense." Fraener smiled at his friends obvious overthinking. Together, they wrestled the pillars into the right formation and pulled the lever. After a moment of terrible indecision, the gate opened, the old ironwork sliding up into the mechanism. They walked into the next ill-lit room, Fraener immediately heading towards the chest. He opened it, only to find a few septims and a red potion. He pocketed both, while Strid'r examined a gem on a stand. "Soul gem," he explained, pocketing it. "Not much use for it, but could sell good to a mage."

"This book is destroyed," Fraener remarked as the moldy remains of a book crumbled in his hands.

"A few thousands years will do that."

"You think that's how old this place is? Wonder that it's still standing, and the levers all still work."

"Truly. The ancients had a grasp on engineering we just don't anymore." Strid'r walked past the table, looking down the hallway beyond. The corridor ended at a spiral staircase, heading only further down into the barrow. Strid'r led first, his blade drawn, hearing rustling from below. When he reached the bottom, he felt a hard nip at his leg. He instinctively kicked, sending the screeching skeever flailing into the wall. The Redguard hacked with his sword at the two others that appeared out of nowhere, their sharp teeth biting into his leather leg armor. In thirty seconds, they were both killed, with Strid'r rubbing his bite marks.

"Damn things," he muttered, kicking the carcass of one away. They continued down the hallway, the air becoming damper as they descended further into the mountain. Spiderwebs covered everywhere, so thick in some places that Strid'r had to cut through them with his sword. Still they pushed on, until they heard a voice calling from ahead.

"Is... is someone coming? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?" The voice was raspy and trembling, fear etched in every word.

"No," Fraener called out. "Your friends are dead." The flat response prompted brief, tense silence.

"No matter, they were mindless brutes anyway. My name is Arvel, Arvel the Swift. Please, you've got to help me!" Strid'r moved forward quickly, hacking through the remaining webs. Finally, he pushed through into the room containing the bandit. The room, which had a gaping hole that light filtered down through, was covered wall to wall with webs. Arvel was wrapped tightly in a web on the far side, suspended in the air by his immobilized limbs. Fraener moved in after Strid'r, keeping a close hand on his bow. "Oh no..." Arvel said with growing horror, "it's back!" He struggled hard against his bindings, his eyes wild with fright. There came a loud crash and a whoosh of air.

A massive spider, the infamous frostbite spider of Skyrim, fell from the hole in the ceiling. It bared its deadly fangs at the two invaders to her realm, its legs squelching into the thick layer of web on the ground. It looked for a moment at the two, then opened its hideous mouth. A green-blue liquid shot out from the beast's mouth, flying through the air straight at the battle-ready Redguard. He dodged, but the poison still glanced his shoulder, numbing his arm as it ate through his armor. The Redguard recovered quickly, holding his blade level to the spider as he waited for the first strike.

It came from Fraener. An arrow flew through the chamber, a second one already knocked when it struck the spider in the face. It recoiled, but turned and pounced almost instantly. Fraener's second arrow went wide as he was knocked off his feet but the massive spider's weight. The sharp, venomous fangs were inches away from the Nord's neck, his locked forearms the only thing keeping death at bay. The fangs drew closer, however, as the spider put more and more of its weight behind it. Freaner could feel the hot breath on his face as he struggled to keep his arms out, his foe's strength wearing his own down. Suddenly, his face was splattered with a vile liquid, and the weight shifted away from him. He heaved the dead spider off of him, as he wiped the disgusting blood off his face. Looking up, he saw Strid'r resheathing his blade and walking towards Arvel.

"You did it! You killed it! Now, cut me down before anything else shows up." Strid'r stepped closer, noticing for the first time the man was a Dunmer.

"Where's the Golden claw?"

"Claw? What claw?"

Strid'r shook his head with disdain, pulling a dagger from his belt and waving it dangerous. "Listen, we know you have it, your friends out front said as much. Don't play dumb."

"Fine, yes I have it. But more importantly, I know how it works! The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I know how they all fit together." He struggled a bit more against the web. "Help me down and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden here." Strid'r shrugged and went to work cutting the man loose. The web was thick, the dagger doing the best it could. Fraener arrived and pulled out a dagger of his own to help. Finally, the last strand was cut and Arvel fell to the ground.

"Okay, let's see the claw," Freaner said to the Dunmer. A sneer on his face, Arvel turned quickly away.

"Hmph. I'm not sharing the treasure with _you_ two." Strid'r swore as the elf took off down the hallway, rapidly disappearing as he turned corners.

"Well, he did call himself The Swift," Fraener remarked as they gave chase. There was a horrendous yell from ahead, causing the two companions to halt. Fraener did a quick check of his surroundings, his heart starting to race. "Strid'r," he said in a low voice, "we're in the main crypt now. This doesn't feel right. Something... something isn't right about this place." Strid'r nodded. He had been feeling it too. There was something here that shouldn't be, some presence that permeated everything. The two crept forward, inching to the edge of the stairs down.

Ahead lay Arvel himself, or what was left of him, bloody and broken on the floor. More dangerously, two skeletal beings stood over him, making unnatural, guttural noises to one another. Their sinewy limbs pressed taut around their bones, giving them a distinctly mummified look. At their belts were very sharp, very old swords. When they turned around, their eyes shone with an unnatural blue light that caused Fraener and Strid'r to shiver inwardly. Whatever life reanimated these old bones clearly gave only barely a whisp of life to them, for they walked unsteadily and awkwardly.

To the two living men's growing horror, more undead began to awaken, shaking centuries old dust off their bodies as they climbed out of their not-so-permanent tombs. Fraener began to step away, some ancient instinct within him warning him back. As he did, a loose stone knocked against the stairway behind him. It bumped into another stone, which in turn knocked into another. The stones fell down the stairway, making a loud racket. Loud enough for the undead to turn their heads and notice the Nord and Redguard standing at the stairs.

"Strid'r."

"Yeah?"

"Jump." Without waiting, the Nord leapt from the stairs, sailing straight over the heads of the undead. After half a second of indecision, Strid'r followed his partner's lead and jumped. Just as Fraener hoped, the undead were unable to reacquire their targets fast enough, and spent precious seconds searching the stairs for them. This gave Strid'r and Fraener enough time to dispatch four of them, their unnatural life leaving them as limbs were severed and flesh torn. "That way!" Fraener shouted when more appeared down the hallway. The pair ran towards a corner, forcing their foes (nearly a dozen by now) to clump together.

Fraener spun on his heels and delivered a crushing blow with his axe: three more fell to the ground, lifeless. But the press of the others kept him moving, and so the pair ran around a central pillar in the chamber. It was by sheer, dumb luck that they managed to avoid the pressure plate on the ground. Their foe, however, were not so lucky. The very first one stepped directly onto it, triggering the massive wall of spikes to spin away from the far wall. It spun with the force of a hurricane, turning the undead Nords into a pile of diced limbs and flesh. Strid'r moved forward and dispatched the last one with his sword.

"What were those things?" Strid'r asked in awe, the Nord bodies on the ground already turning to dust.

"Draugr," Fraener replied, panting. "My father used to tell me stories about them, the fiercest Nords selected to protect the ancient burial sites after death. At least, that's what my father says about them. Don't know how much of it's true."

"Well, regardless, there's more of them coming." Fraener paused to listen and could hear more shuffling and grumblings from the crypts below.

"You don't think they would fall for that trick again, do you?"

"Hm, they don't seem to bright to me."

"Hey," Fraener said in mock offense, "those are my ancestors you're talking about."

Strid'r smiled, said "well, I'd be more receptive to your family if they weren't, you know, trying to kill me." Fraener smiled back at his friend, clapping him on the back.

"Let's kill some draugr." Strid'r nodded and took off down the hallway. A few minutes later, he came run back full tilt, jumping past the pressure plate and next to Fraener, who's bow was taut and ready. A chorus of guttural growling came from down the corridor, as twenty or more draugr came up from the catacombs. Fraener fired arrow after arrow, quickly exhausting his supply. The draugr mob closed in, never suspecting the trap.

Just like before, they triggered the spike wall and, just like before, they were smashed. A pile of limbs and flesh was all that remained of the mobs, their weapons clattering to the ground. The last few were quickly killed by Strid'r, their slow movements easily exploited by the skilled warrior.

They repeated the trick, twice, until they were satisfied the draugr were dead. "Oh, right. Arvel." Strid'r walked over to the unfortunate Dunmer, searching his pockets. He pulled the golden claw out, holding it above and examining it. Fraener grabbed the elf's journal, flipping through it.

"Looks like he figured it out, alright. Come on, let's go." They took off down the corridor, past the empty crypts and deeper into the barrow. Following a stream that flowed through the catacomb, they left the stonework made by the ancient Nords behind. Now they were surrounded by earth, this part clearly just dug into the mountainside. This area seemed old, much older than the barrow itself. It was lit with eerie glowing mushrooms and the occasional skylight, but the tunnels were dark and shadowy. A few draugr patrolled here, but they were quickly dispatched by the two adventurers. The path winded down, nearly invariably heading further into the earth. The air got more humid and hot as they descended. Soon they came upon a bigger Nord-made cavern, with a large pair of wooden doors sealing the way to the deepest, oldest part of the barrow.

Two draugr stepped out from their tombs, these two bigger and faster than those they had already faced. Strid'r launched himself at one, only to be met with a faceful of frost. The draugr unleashed the frostbite spell from his hand, pouring his magicka out on to Strid'r. The Redguard fell back, blinking rapidly to clear the ice from his eyes. The other draugr swung his battle axe at the incapacitated Redguard. There was a ringing of metal on metal as Fraener intercepted the blow and blocked it with the hilt. He swung his own axe at the draugr, but only managed to wedge it halfway into the undead Nord's side. The draugr growled at him as he yanked the axe free. It clattered to the floor, then Fraener felt a biting cold on his back as the first draugr poured the ice spell onto his back. Energy fading, he fell to his knees and watched in horror as the draugr brought the axe above his head, preparing for a single death blow.

Once again, Strid'r's blade saved him. It flew through the air, severing the draugr's hand from his weapon. The axe flew wildly, the blunt side hitting Fraener as it flew past him. The young Nord stood quickly and grabbed his own axe, spun it to the first Draugr and lodged it in his skull. The draugr growled angrily but his light faded and his body collapsed, while Strid'r finished the unarmed draugr.

Panting heavily, Fraener passed his companion a red bottle. Wordlessly, the Redguard took a swig and passed it back, feeling the strong draught doing its work. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his muscles. "Alright, let's get this damn stone." They pushed the massive wooden doors open and entered the inner sanctum.

Walking around the massive flaming brazier, Strid'r listened intently down the next hallway. "Sounds clear," he reported, and the two moved on. They found themselves face to face with massive swinging blades, moving in a simply but harmonic motion. Fraener slowly counted off on his hands the amount of beats for the blades to swing. When he was sure he had it right, he ran through the blades, barely making it past before the last one swung down. "Great, you want to let me through now, or will you just keep dancing around like an Argonian prostitute?" Grinning, the young Nord pulled the chain on his side, and the blades' swinging subsided.

"Draugr," Strid'r pointed out, hearing several moving on the level above. The cavern was designed with two levels, the upper being accessible by way of a log staircase. Several draugr were already making their way over to the stairs when the pair turned to look.

"Uh oh."

"Don't worry, check out the oil lamps." Sure enough, there were several pots of flaming oil hanging from the ceiling, as well as a sheen of oil on the ground. "Alright."

"Alright, what?"

"Alright, shoot down the lamps."

Fraener offered up empty hands. "I'm out of arrows, remember?" The draugr continued to slowly move down the stairs.

"Well why didn't you pack more?"

"I wasn't exactly expecting to fight off a legion of undead!" Strid'r didn't respond, instead searching his surrounding for anything he could use. He settled on a small stone, hurling it at the oil lamp. It hit the lamp but didn't break it. The second one did. The lamp fell, igniting the oil on the ground and engulfing the draugr in flames. Their charred remains adorned the floor as the pair made their way up the stairs. They followed the way around, until they came to a large hallway, much longer than the rest.

"This must be the hall of Stories that Dunmer was talking about," Strid'r said, tracing his hands across the side, the etchings in the stone old. Fraener felt that pit in his stomach tighten, something inherently... powerful about this place. Something that unsettled him to a degree. At length they reached the end, a strange mechanism barring their way ahead.

"Look here, these holes: this must be where the claw fits in." Strid'r looked at it himself.

"Akatosh's wisdom, you're right! That shopkeep never knew what he had the whole time. Well, let's see if it fits!" He pulled the claw from his bag and moved to insert it when Fraener reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"Wait. Look, there's some sort of pattern needed to open it. And I suspect we'll see a trap if we get it wrong." Strid'r looked closely at the different interlocking rings.

"Well, I haven't an idea how to set this up. You have any idea?"

"Yes. Well, maybe. The thief's journal mentioned something on the matter. I think we need to use the claw somehow."

"Use the claw, well that doesn't... oh. Oh. Look at this, the combination is etched into the claw itself! Very clever, isn't it?" Fraener nodded and together, the two heaved the rings into the right position. The stone didn't move easily, but it gave way to them and turned. "Here goes nothing," Strid'r said as he inserted the claw. The springs within the door mechanism groaned but shot quickly, spinning the rings rapidly and causing the door to slide down.

The cavern was massive. Bats flew down from the upper level as they approached the ancient, sealed Nordic tomb. The walls were all natural, the only sign of man the various braziers and altars. Light filtered down from above, filling the room with a pale blue light. A waterfall flowed in the back, the water crashing into a small pond. But it was the center of the room, where an altar and a massive tomb were, that was most impressive.

As they approached, Fraener began to feel a sharp pressure building in his head. His ears started to thrum, and his legs moved inexorably towards the strange wall in the back. It was separate from the natural cavern wall, rather a semi-curved wall not connected. As they drew closer, Fraener felt his eyes drawn to the odd hashes and marks on the wall. He soon realized they weren't just random marks, but runes. Runes of a language far more ancient than anything created by man or elf. It was incomprehensible to him, all gibberish he couldn't hope to understand, but one word was drawing him closer. And closer. He walked into the embrace of the wall, feeling the energy fill him. But it wasn't energy it was... knowledge. The one word filled his mind, repeating unending. _Fus. Fus. Fus._ "Fus," he whispered. The word lacked energy, but he could feel the wall push him back with his word. The experience was surreal, as though he were living through someone else.

Strid'r was busy examining the altar. A large chest was next to the crypt, so he opened it, searching through for a stone. "Hm I don't see a 'dragonstone'," he remarked. "This things probably doesn't even exist..." As the words left his lips, the crypt cover flew off. It blasted into the air, knocking Strid'r to the ground. A very large, very mean looking draugr emerged, his body clad in heavy armor and an axe made of Ebony in his hands. Fraener turned to see his partner down, and immediately ran towards the big draugr.

As Fraener ran in, axe flailing, the draugr took a deep breath in, and shouted. "Fus... Do Rah!" The Nord felt himself being thrown back like a rag doll, his back smashing against the wall. He groaned as he fell to the ground. Strid'r pulled himself up just in time to block the powerful blow from the draugr's axe. The Ebony on Ebony violence kept Strid'r moving, but he was tiring quickly. Sweat beaded in his eye as he struggled to parry his foe's ferocious attacks, the draugr just as limber and quick footed as the living Redguard. There was nothing Strid'r could do as he felt his defense weaken, then finally collapse altogether. He fell to a kneeling position, his blade barely held in his weakened hands. He screwed his eyes shut, felt agony at his failure.

Death was coming. The axe would fall on his neck next, and he would die here, in this gods forsaken tomb. Here, chasing after a stone of all things, as though he didn't have enough of those in his life. He failed his family, his whole mission lost. His purpose in life, all the blood spilled and the deaths from the war, all the friends and brothers he lost... all for naught. All for this outcome, this death, unknown by the world, just another adventurer dead against a foe he couldn't hope to match. He resigned himself to this fate.

But some part of his refused. Some part fought on, and it overpowered his defeat. He tapped into energy deeper in himself. He was not just some adventurer. He was Strid'r, a Redguard from Hammerfell. He was a warrior, a warrior who fought in the bloodiest battles Tamriel had seen in an age. Who at the age of fourteen slew two Thalmor to protect his sisters. And by no means was he going to be defeated by some ancient dead Nord brought back for some odd, unknown purpose. The energy, the _will_, to win flooded to him, and he felt the rush into his blood and his muscles.

He shot to the side, tucking and rolling away from the blade, the sharp Ebony whistling past him by mere inches. Rolling to his feet, Strid'r whipped his sword in an arc, connecting with the draugr's back. The blade sliced down, but the undead Nord hardly showed any sign of pain. Instead, he leaned his head back and whispered in a raspy voice "Fus..."

He never finished. With all his might, Strid'r thrust his sword into the open mouth of the draugr. It broke straight through the back of his skull, causing the shout to stop dead in his throat. The energy of it did not dissipate. Instead, it shot directly up, the raw power severing the undead Nord's head from his body. The draugr fell, his head shooting into the air and landing several feet away on the ground.

Strid'r collapsed onto the table, feeling exhilaration and exhaustion at the same time. Fraener, rubbing a wounded head, stumbled his way over. "I think..." he panted, "next time... you should open with that..." The two collapsed laughing, both struggling to regain his respective breath. When at last their mirth subsided, Fraener took for him the Ebony axe and, to his surprise, the Dragonstone. "Well, I'll be damned," he declared, "makes sense the biggest, baddest one of the bunch would have it."

"Come on," Stridr's said, taking a swig of a green potion, "I think I saw a way out." They hiked up to the far side of the cavern, where a small pullbar opened a hidden rock door. It lead to a tunnel from before the puzzle door, thankfully shortening the way back. When they at last emerged from the barrow, night had already fallen on Skyrim. Then they heard a familiar voice.

"Ah, J'Ruq had been wondering when you would come out of the nasty Nordic tomb."

"Well, well, well. What do we have here? A Dunmer in league with a Redguard? That's something I never would have suspected." Jenassa struggled to keep her eyes focused in the dim moonlight, her frame being supported by two Thalmor soldiers. They kept their bodies stock still, their taut muscles holding the captive in iron grip. "I'll make this simple: you've been wounded, badly. I only want information. Now, that wound is worse than it looks: it's called an Oblivion Gash. Even now, little bits of your soul is siphoning into Oblivion through the wound. We can, of course, heal you and stop the process. Or... we can let you die. Your choice." The Altmer turned his back, his eyes surveying the countryside beyond the treeline. He tried to remember what he saw on the map around here. A small village, a mill town. Further south, Falkreath. Below that, Cyrodriil. He could be anywhere, could have easily left the country. Suddenly, the Dunmer's information became even more important.

"You really don't know how to deal with a Dunmer, do you? We don't respond to threats very well." Jenassa's voice came out even, despite her soul's wavering. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She was close, so close, to the end. Her strength was failing her, vision blurring at the exertion of talking. _Azura preserve me,_ she begged silently. _Ancestors... please... come to me now. Come to me in my hour of need._ She opened her eyes, looking at the faces of her captors.

"Oh, I've killed many dark Elves in my day, girl. Yours will hardly be significant. Now I will get the information I want. It will only depend on how much you want to suffer first." He turned back at her, bending down to eye level to the drooping woman. "It's over as soon as you're ready to talk." She spat at his face. "Very well," the Altmer replied wiping the flem off his cheek as he straightened himself. "You're going to rot in a torture cell then, as you slowly wither away." Jenassa felt her body succombing to exhaustion and the wound. Her eyes filled with double-vision, she looked up one last time at her captor. Then...

She saw the spectral images of someone behind the Thalmor Justicar And then more showed up, and more. An endless field of white lay behind him, the spectral spirits filling as far as the eye can see. _We're here, Janessa,_ she heard in her head, and knew immediately ony she could see the spirits. _Your ancestors are here._ She felt energy return to her limbs, felt her skin start to warm up. The power filled her completely, the wound a mere irritance now. She took a deep breath in, and as she exhaled her body exploded into fire. The flames were close but not touching her, a gift from her ancestors.

Thrusting her hands down, she broke the soldiers' grip on her, whilst the flames sent them sprawling. The Justicar's horrified and surprised face lasted only a second before his eyes narrowed in determination. Janessa didn't waste any time. She threw herself at the high Elf, wrapping him in a tight embrace. Instantly his robes cindered, his skin blackened and his hair caught aflame. "Feel the wrath of my ancestors!" Janessa shouted into his ear, "feel the power of the Dunmer! Feel it, and FEAR!" She held him tightly, smelling his burning flesh. She pressed her cheek against his, hearing a grunt of pain as she burned half his face.

Suddenly, the flames went out. Janessa watched helplessly as her ancestors disappeared, and a weight unimaginable settled onto her shoulders. Then she felt a sharp pain in her back, felt her blood trickling down. She fell to the ground, pain erupting all around her; she knew she was dying, her Dunmer soul about to leave her body. She looked up to see the Justicar, badly burned, pulling a small item from his pocket.

"I had been saving this," he told her, sneering, his lips slurring the words, "for someone more important, but I think you deserve the suffering just as much." He held the item up for her, and her face turned more ashen. It was a soul gem, but deep black like onyx. The kind meant for mortal souls. She helplessly watched as he cast a spell on her, feeling her vital life essence being drawn to him.

She died, and her soul flew into the soul gem. She rattled around, in agony, but trapped in the gem. The Justicar pocketed the gem, applying a light healing spell to his face. It would heal, but the hideous scar would remain. A good reminder not to underestimate his opponents. "My lord?"

The call came from one of his adjutants. "Yes, what is is?"

The elf took a deep breath. "A soul capture sir? Isn't that against regulations?" The Justicar stopped, and turned to address him.

"What we're doing here is too important to worry of regulations. If we prevail here, if we get that Redguard... then none of those regulations shall matter. Fortune may favor the bold, but Tamriel favors the ruthless. Now, bury this dunmer somewhere, and saddle up the horses."

"Where are we going, sir?"

"There's a small hamlet nearby. If we leave now, we should be able to reach it in the morning. It's a starting point." The Justicar brought a hand to his cheek, his skin tender and warm to the touch. "Soon enough, we shall have our answers." He turned sharply and mounted his horse, not waiting for his comrades as he galloped into the night.

**A/N: This is all headed for a confrontation at Riverwood! See what happens next chapter when the Thalmor come looking. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, comment any criticisms you might have. And PM me if you want to contact me, I'm always open for a chat. Anyway, stayed tuned as the story heats up!**


	8. Chapter 8 A False Trail

**A/N: This took waay too long to get through, and I'm so sorry to everyone who had to wait. More bad news: I leave for college in a week, so I won't have any time to write more! But wait, there's better news: I_ will_ write at least so far as the Greybeards before I leave, I promise. Please, go ahead and read the story, I hope you find it to your liking. And share it with your friends, please! Also, trying hard to get the page breaks to work, we'll see if it worked this time.**

"You'd better start explaining, cat. I told you what we'd do to you if we ever saw you again." Strid'r's hand rested on his sword, his stance intimidation itself.

"Trust J'Ruq, if it were up to him he'd be long gone. But after he leaves you two, he comes across a wounded elf, yes a horrible wound. J'Ruq tried to help the wound, but nothing seemed to work. Horrible, nasty Thalmor."

"Thalmor?" Strid'r's neck muscles tightened as memories not distant enough threatened to overtake him.

"Yes, Thalmor! Nasty, wicked evil Thalmor! The dark elf was very wounded, yes, very wounded badly. J'Ruq tell her I can get her away, but she knows he lies. The clever J'Ruq only barely avoided the Thalmor himself. But she gives him a message, yes. Desperate to get it to a Redguard in Riverwood. I says, 'Redguard? Why, J'Ruq was travelling with one just today!' and she tells me I must tell you a message in all haste."

"A message? From a Dunmer I don't even know? This smells funny, J'Ruq, I won't lie."

"Wait, wait!" J'Ruq fumbled around his pockets, eventually finding a small crumpled piece of paper. "Elf says to give this to you, that it probably makes more sense to you than her. Said she took it off the dead body of a Thalmor Soldier." Strid'r accepted the paper, his eyes not leaving the shifty Khajiit.

When the Redguard read the first sentence, his blood froze. _Hirhune._ Images returned to him, scenes of horror from Hammerfell. The outer defenses of Sentinel broken, the Thalmor's dremora flooding in, the butchering of men and woman like cattle... and atop it all, one Thalmor Wizard directing the slaughter. _Hirhune._ Strid'r's hands shook as he skimmed the rest of it. When finished with it, he crumpled the paper and threw it over the snowy mountainside. He touched the pocket where his stone was, safe still.

"What did it say?" Fraener's innocent question brought the Redguard back to reality.

"I - we - might be in some trouble."

Fraener frowned. "Trouble? Trouble how?" The Redguard did not reply, instead addressed J'Ruq.

"Well, I guess you're coming with us then."

"What? J'Ruq did not agree to this." Strid'r turned to face the path down.

"You don't have a choice. The Thalmor are hunting me. Pretty soon they'll figure out you two were associated with me, and then you'll be hunted just as hard." Now he turned to Fraener. "I'm sorry to have dragged you into this. But we have to move, and move fast. The Thalmor are relentless, so we have to throw them off our tail. If we don't throw them off by tonight... well, they'll bring in their whole network and every rock will be hiding an assassin and every crack of thunder will be a battlemage hunting for me. For us."

"Do you have a plan for this?"

"I think so, but we have to reach Riverwood. So let's go." Together, the two men and one feline made their way down the mountain, leaving Bleak Falls Barrow behind them. Fraener's mind was still racing from the peculiar word. It kept repeating in his head, a buzz that wouldn't fade into the background. But this strange new threat from the Thalmor was more important. He wracked his brain for everything he knew of them, the high Elven soldiers of the Aldmeri Dominion. They were supremacists, his father would say, and he thought Skyrim had enough of those. Fraener had always had a strange notion of them as a sort of distant evil force, but now he had to face that they weren't so distant at all.

"J'Ruq is sorry," the Khajiit warrior started to speak as they reached the valley, "but he still does not understand why he must come with you. He could be halfway to Cryodiil by now. The Altmer weren't impossible to sneak by."

Strid'r shook his head. "It's not the getting past them that's the problem. Let me put it to you this way: even if you made it to the Imperial City, the Thalmor are everywhere. They have agents in every city and province, both watching and waiting. If you so much as raised your head you'd find a dagger in your throat just for being aligned opposite their cause. And they will never stop hunting you. Sure, you might survive for a while, but eventually they will find you. Case and point: they tracked me from Hammerfell to Skyrim. And, unfortunately, to you two."

J'Ruq did not respond, and so the trio walked in silence the rest of the way. They soon came upon Riverwood, the sleepy hamlet seeming to all but retire for the night. A few guards walked around, but everyone seemed to have gone inside to their beds. The three walked into the Sleeping Giant Inn, where they were greeted by a cry of alarm and dismay. "Damn you, J'Ruq! I wasn't expecting to see you so soon."  
>"You are late on your payment Embry, but J'Ruq is not here for that." Embry seemed to calm, sitting back down but eyeing the Khajiit suspiciously. "What?" J'Ruq said to Fraener's sideways stare, "money-lending is a good side business."<p>

"Good day innkeeper," Strid'r said pleasantly as he approached the counter where a gruff looking Nord was working.

"It's night," he replied flatly.

Strid'r gave a cheap smile and continued on. "I'd like to rent a room for the night, for me and my two companions."

The man looked over Strid'r shoulder to J'Ruq and Fraener, who were speaking idly with a young wood elf in the corner. "You want to share a bed with a cat and another man? Whatever you're into buddy." There came a chuckle from the inn, and more than a few snorts. "Standard rate, even if you guys share."

"Alright, but you see there might be some, ah, _individuals _who may come searching for our whereabouts. We would certainly be prepared to pay a premium rate to ensure our secrecy..."

"Stormcloak of Imperial?" the barkeep cut off Strid'r, a look of disdain on his face.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I said, Stormcloak or Imperial? Who are you running from? We get all sorts of folks on either side runnin' this way and that. All I gotta know is who's looking for you, and where you're going, so we can point 'em in the other direction." He flashed a toothy grin. "For the right price, of course."

"We're not being pursued by either of your mentioned parties," Strid'r replied. "We're being tracked by a much more sinister group."

"Dark Brotherhood? We don't deal with that. You're on your own for dealing with them." The Redguard shook his head.

"No, no, no assassins. The Thalmor are our hunters." The chatter in the inn died away instantly. The other guests eyed each other nervously, and regarded the newcomers with a fresh wave of suspicion.

The barkeep looked taken aback, seeing his new patrons with a greater awe. "Thalmor, eh? Well, now you've got me in a tough spot. The last people I want to get tangled with is the Thalmor. But on the other hand I can't just leave anyone out to dry with pompous assholes at their backs."

"Please," Strid'r responded, his voice dropping low. "It's our best chance." The innkeeper hesitated, but his mind was already made up. He stuck out a hand to the Redguard, who accepted it and shook it strongly.

"Orgnar's the name. Now, tell me your plan then, and quickly."

Three Altmer entered the inn at eight o'clock sharp, having canvassed the poachers and fishermen in the area. They were a surprisingly helpful group, when hints were dropped that their poaching could be reported to the Jarl. The front one had on robes, which were slightly burned in the front, while the back two had on elven armor. Hostility and suspicion emanated from the inn as they marched to Orgnar, who tended the bar. _Delphine would be better at this_, he thought. _Always was better at handling strangers._ He continued to wipe down the bar as they approached closer. The front one cleared his throat impatiently. It was then that Orgnar noticed the horrible burn marks on his face and running down his neck. "Ugh, you lay with a flame atronach or something?" The high Elf showed no sign of acknowledging what he said.

"We're looking for a Redguard, and possibly a Nord companion. They're both of considerable importance to the Dominion, and we heard they were coming this way. Can you assist us? It would be in your best interests to do so," he added at the end, slowly articulating each word to be sure of no misunderstanding. There was no _hint_ of malice in his voice, rather a not-so-subtle overtone. The bulky Nord behind the counter reached out with his rag to continue wiping down the bar. Although his hand was steady and his breathing was calm, his heart was beating rapidly. He silently admonished himself for moving his axe to the lower level under the bar.

"Nord, eh? Well, that narrows it down to... well, everyone. Except Sven over there. He's a wood elf." Sven looked up from his ale suspiciously. The Altmer gestured impatiently.

"The Redguard is more important. Did he come through here?"

"Well, I can't be expected to remember everyone that comes into my inn, now can I?" Orgnar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "A few septims might jog my memory though," he added, a small smile hitting his lips. _Really gotta sell this,_ he thought, _they've got to believe I'm motivated by greed._ The Altmer sneered, his hand rummaging through his burned robes. He managed to scrounge up a few septims and passed them to Orgnar, the coins clattering across the bar.

"Yeah, I remember 'em. Big fella, scary looking. Worn leather armor, nasty sword. Came through here just last night, him and a scrawny looking Nord. Seemed tired, Redguard was nursing some sort of cut on his arm. Looked bad. Anyway, they bedded down for the night and left in the morning."

"Did they mention where they were going?" the Thalmor pressed. Orgnar cocked his head, looking up towards the far end of the bar.

"You know, I can't remember for the life of me which way they were headed. Probably too much mead. Nothin' a few more septims can't fix," he added slyly. A look of contempt and disgust appeared on the Altmer, and it took all of Orgnar's self control not to put an axe through it.

"You humans and your greed." More coins clattered across the bar.

"They mentioned picking up a horse at Falkreath, then seeing if they could get through to the Imperial City to meet with some group."

The Thalmor seemed taken aback. "A group? You are certain it wasn't a single person, they specifically mentioned a group?"

"Aye," the Nord replied, his heart racing as he spun the lie. "The Redguard mentioned something about a meeting of members from all over Tamriel. What was the expression he used... ah, right. The trump card. He said 'We'll get to the others and get ready to play our trump card'. That's all I remember." The Altmer was gone before he finished speaking. Once the door closed the Nord let loose a sigh of relief and reached for a bottle of strong mead he kept under his bar.

From behind the wall, hidden in a small crawlspace, Strid'r watched the whole scene. He didn't recognize the front high Elf, but the insignia on his robe and the two guards behind him were unmistakable. All soldiers from Hirhune's command.

The Redguard closed his eyes, allowing his head to swim with the memories of a battle he wished he could forget. The breakthrough at the front gate, the horrible rush of the dremora and atronachs... yes, he could see it now, the fireballs arcing into the city itself, burning the thatched roofs. A push from behind, the jarring motion of his phalanx unit pushing him forward, a desperate holding action to keep the Thalmor at bay. The blood ran thick on his sword that day, the Thalmor footsloggers facing the terror of battle with the same stoic effectiveness they do everything else. Then, the arrow that almost killed him, being dragged off the field by none other than his own brother. His mind still racing, still swimming when he felt a small tug on his shoulder.

"It is safe now," came a distinctly feline voice, "come." Strid'r followed the Khajiit out of the crawlspace and emerged into the inn, thoroughly covered with dust. He walked over to the barkeep, his hand already digging through his pocket to find the payment. The Nord raised his hand in protest.

"No, can't do it. It's no good to have the Thalmor here in Skyrim at all, so you did us a favor sending them to Cryodiil. Consider it even." He paused, looking at Fraener and J'Ruq. "Still have to pay for the room though." The Redguard smiled and gratefully passed the man his coin for the room. The room was small and spartan, but enough room for the three of them at least (J'Ruq slept on the bed, citing "travel pains" necessitating it).

Morning came, the heat of the massive hearth keeping the chill outside from creeping in. The trio rose and, after a light breakfast, thanked a gruff Orgnar for the help. They left the inn and headed straight for the Riverwood trader. They emerged a few minutes later, returning the claw (which looked smaller than Lucien remembered) and taking their share of the gold. Only Strid'r knew why he was smiling, because now he had enough gold to pay that Breton in Whiterun. Although the Thalmor were already reaching Falkreath, the trio decided not to risk the main road. So they stayed in the woods, J'Ruq's tracking skills helping them stay on the path back to Whiterun.

It was a brief debate to ultimately decide to return to Whiterun. While the city was known to have Imperial sympathies, there was no Thalmor presence in the city. Fraener was worried that if someone tipped off the Thalmor, they would be hard pressed to escape the city in any haste given the imposing walls around it. Strid'r, who still had to meet with Belethor, cited that they were honorbound to deliver the Dragonstone. Fraener agreed that this was paramount, but held his reservations about the safety of the city.

As they walked, J'Ruq kept a nervous look around him. He smelled at the air: although his sense of smell was not as strong as a canine, it was still better than the humans. Something wasn't quite... right. His senses were heightened, his hackles raised as he felt danger nearby. Sure enough, there came a sudden rustling of leaves. A low growl in his throat, the Khajiit called the party to a stop. The two looked quizzically at their companion as he held up his furry hand. His instincts strong, he pointed at a shrub under a tree and loose a yowl that hearkened back to his early ancestors.

The shrub shook, then began to rise, the tiny leaves swirling around by some unseen force. It spread, until a shape started to form, deep green and malevolent. Two arms, two legs and a head, the nearly humanoid figure was levitating a foot or so off the ground, making it seem even taller. It was slender and lithe, but it's entire body was a strange fluorescent green.

Fraener's heart sank when he finally realized what he was seeing. Spriggons were always a risk when wandering the wilds of Skyrim, and he knew many good hunters who were struck down by the powerful creatures. He still remembered when the village chief had brought back a slain one, mounting it as the mantelpiece of his house for all to see his valor. The man, tough as any Nord Fraener knew, had paid a terrible price: his left eye was gouged out in the fight.

Strid'r's sword was out in an instant. Stepping forward quickly, he swung it for a lateral blow. As he stepped closer, a strange aura took hold of him, both draining him of strength as well as causing his eyesight to blur. His arm felt very heavy, causing his blow to fall mid-strike. He fell to one knee, panting as his head swam.

J'Ruq felt a mind invading his. Although his race could talk and walk, he could feel the older, more primal part of him responding. _Protect my forest!_ The voice rang clear in his head. _Kyne is your master, and I his trusted overseer! You must strike down these invaders, for they come to soil our beautiful lands!_ The rest was incomprehensible to the Khajiit, but he felt a powerful urge to pull his dagger on his companions. He turned, a green light coming to his eyes as his hands closed around the dagger's hilt. Fraener was pulling his bow from his back, preparing to knock an arrow as J'Ruq drew his Glass dagger. He pulled it up behind his shoulder, preparing to lodge it deep in the Nord's skull.

The Spriggon screamed in agony as the sharpened malachite cut into its chest. "J'Ruq has not master!" he half shouted, half screeched in fashion with his race. A feral growl came from J'Ruq as he launched himself at the green creature, biting with his teeth and ripping with his claws. The Spriggon fought back, pulling fur and tearing skin, but it was no match for the ferocious Khajiit. In seconds he was clawing at a dead Spriggon, the helpless body just lay there as the spirit faded. J'Ruq heard a whisper in his head, mournful and sad, before the light left its eyes. The cat rolled over onto his back, panting from the exertion while Strid'r drank from a red vial.

"What in Arkay's name was that?" Strid'r asked between sips.

"A Spriggon," Fraener responded, helping the Khajiit to his feet. "They're one of those nasty things from Skyrim always trying to kill you. You did well, J'Ruq. The only person I've ever known to kill a Spriggon lost an eye from the encounter." The feline warrior shrugged indifferently.

"He was no match for me." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a small vial and poured it over his wounds. Instantly the blood disappeared, and his gashes started to heal. "Still, J'Ruq would not like to test his skills against such a foe again. Once was enough." They rested for a bit, but ultimately decided they needed to press on. J'Ruq took them on paths that avoided the heavily wooded areas. That did cause them to run into more wolves, but they were easily dispatched by Fraener's bow and Strid'r's sword. Finally, with the sun still high in the air, the plain of Whiterun lay before them. From atop the small mountain range that divided the hold, they could easily make out Whiterun city, as well as the hazy mountains beyond.

As they descended, Fraener heard a distant roar. The word repeated in his head suddenly increased tenfold, and it was all he could do to keep from stumbling. He scanned the skies for what he hoped wasn't there, but saw nothing. Deciding he was just being jumpy, he kept one eye on the sky while he continued with his companions down to the road, ultimately to Whiterun city itself.

"Alduin, my Lord." The brown dragon laid his head down, the Dragon's way of bowing. Several times his size, the black Dragon Alduin, The World-Eater, Firstborn of Akatosh and Master of the now defunct Dragoncult stood proud and tall over the lesser dragon. Second only to his father, Akatosh, Alduin's arrogance knew no bounds as he spoke to the younger Dragon.

"Mirmulnir," he intoned, his voice deep and strong, the Thu'um threatening to knock Mirmulnir off the mountain. "I have asserted my dominance over the humans at the place they called Helgen. But their leaders, their Jarls, do not believe any threat has arrived. Bah! They think them still safe. Do you remember when they would grovel before us?"

"Yes, my lord, I do. I have survived these many centuries, that I may one day serve you as I once did. But the others, they did not survive. Nay, though many survived the Dragon-War, we were lost without your leadership. Paarthurnax did not assume command -" He was cut off by a ferocious roar, one that echoed and roared down the mountainside.

"Paarthurnax! My teeth to his neck! It was he who taught the Nords the Voice, he who betrayed us. I hope the men hunted him down and that he died in terror!"

"My lord, forgive me," Mirmulnir replied, fear and disbelief showing through, "I did not know. There came a great enemy, my Lord, a great enemy to all dovah. A mortal born of the dragon blood, a gift from our father, who lead them to triumph with a Thu'um to match a dovah. The slaughter from this man Reman Cyrodiil, was worse than the Dragon War. But things only got worse for the surviving dovah. A group came from the Old Lands, and they made it their mission to kill all the surviving dovah. Our blood fell from the sky like rain. I fear I am the only one who survives."

"Fear not, my young brother. For I have been given the power of life as well as death: I will raise our fallen brethren, as well as our ancient servants. And then, the mortals here will know again they are inferior, that their true master is I, Alduin. Then, I shall destroy this world, as is my Destiny." The smaller dragon flew back, hovering in the air, just off the mountaintop.

"My Lord, tell me what I must do! I will follow your Thu'um wherever it shall take me!"

"Go now, my brother. Go and make the Jarl of Whiterun know the fear only a dovah can bring. Go, Mirmulnir, go and bring death in my name. For I am Alduin, the Firstborn of Akatosh, and I will have my birthright restored!" The massive dragon roared into the sky, then flew off opposite to Mirmulnir, who sped northward.

**A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed it! Please, comment and subscribe, let me know how I'm doing and, why not send me a PM? I'm always looking for new ideas or criticisms. Let me know what you want to be to do with the characters, or which npcs you might want to see featured!**


	9. Chapter 9 Dragon Falling

**A/N: Hello my loyal readers! So, I go on hiatus. Tomorrow I leave for school, where I suspect I will find little time to write. Have faith though! I will return for Christmas and pick up where I left off!**

**Anyway, it's the dragon fighting scene (with a twist!) from the mission Dragon Rising. A bit more on Strid'r, and a helluva lot to the new dragonborn. And of course, everyone's favorite Khajiit, J'Ruq. Sidebar: make note I actually don't know anything about the massive backstory the fans created for Tor, but in keeping with the culture I've made one of my own. Simple, but effective. Thank you to my likers, my followers and my readers. Share this story with everyone while I'm gone, the more feedback the better! And if you have a specific direction you'd like the story to go in, I'm more than happy to consider it! I've also got one more character to add: a female mage. Shoot me ideas guys, I really would appreciate it! **

**Now enjoy!**

"Ah, the Dragonstone! You're cut from a different cloth from most of the brutes the Jarl sends my way." Farengar took the stone busily, putting it down on the table gingerly. He immediately grabbed for parchment and pen as he bent over to study the stone.

"So... what now?" Farengar stood up straighter to address the young Nord.

"That is where your job ends, and mine begins. The work of the mind, sadly undervalued here in Skyrim." Fraener shrugged off the half insult to his intelligence as he turned to regard the mysterious figure standing behind Farengar. Although garbed simply and apparently unarmed, she had a distinctly unapproachable air about her. Her arms crossed, she shifted her weight as if impatient, and Fraener got the feeling she was closely examining him as well. She didn't make any movement to speak to Fraener, so he decided to take initiative. After all, it was rude not to talk to someone.

"Hello," he said, stepping forward so as to not make any mistake whom he was addressing, "I don't believe we have met."

"No," came the curt reply, "and we won't." The woman walked away past Fraener, turning to Farengar (who had resumed his intensive study of the dragonstone) and said: "Get me a copy of that transcription when you're done with it, Farengar." The mage nodded absently as he went about studying the various runes and symbols on the stone.

"Who was that?" Fraener asked when he was sure she was out of earshot.

"Who? Ah, Delphine, yes. Um, not too sure actually, she's the one who first led me to discovering the location for the dragonstone. Wouldn't tell me where she got her information though, and demanded a copy of it when I finish transcribing it." He made a note on his paper. "Not that I mind. I'm more than happy to share my work, so long as it is valued." Satisfied, he went back to his work, leaving Fraener to see himself out of the small mage's quarter. The Nord was nearly out when he heard the thudding of boots and almost ran into the housecarl, the Dunmer woman not caring if she toppled the Nord over.

"Farengar! Farengar! You need to come at once! A dragon's been sighted nearby!"

**[This is a page break. Because keeps deleting mine. Carry on]**

Belethor's shop was nearly empty when Strid'r walked in. A look of fear passed the Breton's face as the Redguard approached, noting the empty shelves and bare counter. "Going somewhere, Belethor?" he asked sharply.

The shopkeeper threw his hands up, shaking violently. "Look, I didn't have a choice. They arrived just after you left." Strid'r looked up at the man, confusion etched on his face. Then he felt a presence behind him, and his hand shot straight to the hilt of his sword.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a smooth, elven voice said. Strid'r turned slowly, facing the Thalmor soldier standing in full body armor on the opposite side of the shop. "We guessed you'd come back, and this helpful shopkeeper has been most cooperative, allowing us to use his shop for stakeout. Most helpful." He shot a arrogant look at Belethor, who shuddered slightly.

Strid'r's mind was racing. Nevermind his Nord friend, nevermind the Khajiit outside the city, his first thought had to be survival. _How will I survive the next five minutes?_ his brothers often would say. _Never be afraid to revert to that type of thinking in combat - it keeps your mind on task._ The Redguard slowed his breathing, forced himself to focus on the moment. The Altmer was still talking, giving some sort of eloquent speech. Ignoring this, Strid'r's eyes searched the shop, mostly empty of merchandise, for anything useful. He spotted instantly a small black vial on the counter, something the Breton hadn't packed up yet. The warrior moved instantly, without hesitation.

The surprised elf let loose a wail of agony as the poison splashed onto his face. He staggered backwards, blind, reaching for a wall to stabilize himself. Strid'r was on his in an instant, his blows raw and wild. They struck across the breastplate, across the legs and into the groin, but no blow managed to pierce the tough elven armor. A swear and a healing spell later, the Thalmor was back on his feet, but badly off-balance and off-guard.

With a sudden intake of breath, Strid'r swung the Ebony blade in a long arc. The bound sword the Thalmor wielded was brought to a parry position that would easily deflect his opponent's blow. In his mind, the elf was already counter-attacking, his own sword sliding between the man's ribs after forcing his sword arm away. So simple, yet so perfectly executed, the Redguard would have no chance to defend himself.

The Altmer was surprised when his defending arm felt no impact of the sword rattling against his. He turned to see the Hammerfell warrior's sword stopped mere inches away from his own, an impressive display of skill by the Redguard. Suddenly pain wracked his abdomen and liquid was trickling down his stomach. He looked into the face of the Redguard and knew he had been beaten.

Strid'r's face was cold and impassive as he yanked his dagger up, through the elf's stomach and towards his frantically beating heart. Years of conditioning from birth made the Thalmor soldier give no sign of pain, but his grunts were more than enough acknowledgement. When at last he fell limp, the Redguard warrior pulled his dagger free and returned it to his belt. Sword still drawn, he turned to the counter, searching for the shopkeeper. A whimper came from under the counter, giving away the Breton's position.

"Aaaah pleeeease don't kill me!" Strid'r scoffed at the man's pathetic pleas after he pulled him out from under the counter. The Redguard pushed his boot into Belethor's chest and pointed his sword at his neck.

"Your buyer. Who is he?"

"Delvin! Delvin Mallory!"

"Where can I find him?" There was more than a trace of ice in the recently ambushed warrior's voice.

"The Ratway! Sewer system under Riften. The Ragged Flagon, it's.. it's the home of the Thieves Guild. He can help you... please let me live!" Strid'r stepped off the man, a look of contempt on his face.

"You're going to set this place back up, burn that body and pretend like nothing happened. If the Thalmor come back, tell them their soldier was called away by an embassy official. That's the story: you got it?" The Breton nodded furiously as he picked himself up. "Good. If you sell me out again, I _will_ kill you next time." Without another word he turned, spinning around on his heels as he left the shop.

This was not good news. The main force under Hirhune should be on their way to Cyrodiil to track down his false trail, but evidently some part of his network of agents was activated, probably by request of the embassy. That meant there would be more Thalmor looking for him, and if that idiot shopkeeper had given up the name of the buyer, they could be waiting for him in Riften. It was not a risk he wanted to take, but there really wasn't much of a choice. The chilly night air bit into him, causing him to shiver. The cold of Skyrim was something he was having a hard time getting used to.

He was walking through the main section of the marketplace when two guards barrelled into him. The three of them went sprawling, but the two guards quickly gathered themselves and kept on running, taking no notice of the Redguard they knocked over. Dusting himself off, he turned to another guard who was passing by and demanded to know what was going on. "Housecarl ordered all the guards on their feet and to their posts. This usually only happens when the city is under attack."

"_Has_ this ever happened?"  
>The guard paused for a breath, his voice uneasy. "No, not since many Jarls ago. Rumor has it that... well, it's only a rumor but... some men have reported seeing a... well, a dragon. I know, it seems crazy and this is probably because of a Stormcloak raid too close to the city but... still, something feels wrong." The guard suddenly caught himself, pulling into a rigid stance that smacked of propriety. "But that is no concern of yours, citizen. We will be more than able to handle whatever is coming." Before Strid'r could respond there was a flurry of activity on the stone staircase that led to Dragonsreach. Strid'r jogged over, seeing the housecarl Irileth and a detachment of palace guards brandishing torches running down the stairs in formation, Fraener at their heels. Without question, Strid'r ran over towards his friend and fell into the ranks.<p>

"What's happening?" Strid'r inquired in a hurried tone as the group descended lower into the city.

"Dragon, believe it or not," Fraener huffed back. The formation slowed as they approached the front gate. Several guards were milling about, looking anxiously towards the sky. Irileth marched past the group of guards, turning crisply on her heel to address them. The guards instantly stiffened, their training when being addressed by a superior officer kicking in. The Dunmer woman observed the party for a few seconds, before beginning a no nonsense military speech.

"Here's the situation men. A dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower." There was a collective intake of breath, as well as a few sharp curses from the men. One guard muttered about certain death, another prayed to Shor. Irileth let the men loose the steam before pressing on. "You heard right, I said a dragon. I don't much care where it came from," the housecarl went on, "or who sent it." The black dragon from Helgen suddenly flashed through Fraener's mind, as well as a terrible sense of urgency, but before he could focus in on it the thought floated away. "But what I do know is that it's made the mistake of attacking Whiterun!" The guards stood in their silence, until one spoke up.

"But... housecarl. How can we fight a dragon?" The hefty male Nord instantly dropped his eyes in deference to the elf's rank. Irileth did not scold the guard, however.

"That's a fair question. None of us have ever seen a dragon before, or expected to face one in battle." Her eyes briefly sought Fraener, as if acknowledging his previous experience. "But we are honorbound to fight it, even if we fail," she continued, the pitch in her voice ratcheting up. "This dragon is threatening our homes, our families! Can you call yourselves Nords if you ran away from this monster? Are you going to let me face this thing alone?" Her shouts energized the men, who were now fidgeting and fingering their swords and bows.

"No housecarl!" they shouted back at her.

"But it's more than our honor at stake here. Think of it - the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age. The glory of killing it is ours! If you're with me!" With the last words she pulled her sword from its sheath, and summoned lightning with her free hand. "Now, what do you say, men of Whiterun? Shall we go_ kill us a dragon?_" The men went into a frenzy, hollering and shouting in traditional Nordic fashion. Even Strid'r shouted, being swept into the movement.

Fraener was the only one to remain silent. He just kept seeing Helgen in his mind, the town being levelled by a monster more powerful than any man. The sheer size and strength of the beast overcame the entire town, all falling victim to his indomitable will. Nonetheless, he ran with the party as they left the gate, keeping in line with Strid'r. The Redguard seemed excited to face the dragon, a grin already on his face. Much like the rest of the guards, Fraener noted. They all seemed equally poised for a drinking contest as they were to a fierce battle. But such is the way of the Nords.

"Psst." Fraener's head shot around as he scanned the darkness for the source of the sound. A definitive hiss, the young Nord knew exactly where it came from.

"J'Ruq?" he whispered urgently into the darkness, falling out of line. The Khajiit rose from his stealthy prone position, emerging far closer than Fraener had originally thought. The feline warrior looked nothing like the easy-going wanderer they had met in Riverwood: he was decked out in full glass armor regalia. Beyond that his demeanor had changed drastically, a look of seriousness now dominated his face.

"Ah, J'Ruq is glad you are here, and that you brought company. He was afraid he would have to face the flying Argonian by himself." Fraener shook his head as he explained exactly what was out there. "Yes, Khajiit eyes are good in the dark. It has been circling around the stone tower, but has flown off just now."  
>"J'Ruq, where in Oblivion did you get that armor? What are you doing out here anyway, I thought you were hanging around the caravan parked outside the city."<p>

"When a crisis emerges, the Khajiit bands pick the most able warrior to go face the threat. Sometimes, he just offers to go himself. In compensation, they've given me this armor. Not that I'll keep it: it's itchy and stiff. But it'll be nice against dragon's fire." Without further ado, the two sprinted to catch up with the column now arriving at the tower. Flames smoldered in piles of debris lying haphazardly around the tower.

"Well, no sign of any dragon, but it sure looks like he's been here." The housecarl turned to Stird'r and Fraener, noting the Khajiit standing with them. "I know it looks bad, but we have to find out what happened here. Men, fan out! Search for survivors!" The men instantly obeyed the housecarl, each one checking the skies every few seconds. There was almost an adrenaline free-fall, the excitement now in a lull as they waited for something, _anything_ to happen. Strid'r, Fraener and J'Ruq moved towards the damaged tower itself, treading cautiously on the broken stairs. Suddenly there was a groan from the top of the stairs, where a Nord was lying. He was donned in a burned and ripped guard's armor, and bleeding profusely from a wound in his side. The three instantly saw that he would not survive, the wound being fatal. Strid'r called out for Irlieth, who came running.

"No!" the semi-conscious man croaked as he struggled to prop himself up, "get back! It's still out there somewhere. Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!" Wincing, the man fell back down, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Tor..." Irileth whispered to herself, her sword drooping and her eyes becoming downcast.

"I'm sorry housecarl," one of the guards nearby murmured. The Dunmer shook it off, turning to face the others.

"Men, that dragon isn't gone yet, so just sit tight. Keep those eyes open and the senses tight, if it comes back we mu-" She was cut off by a roar that rolled down from the sky. It shook everything, the tower, the guards, even the ground trembled. An incredible urge to run suddenly filled the heart of every guard, their excitement turning quickly into fear. To Strid'r, it was like the feeling of a hopeless battle, of knowing defeat was inevitable. Awash with these feelings, the hardened warrior nonetheless steeled himself for the coming fight.

"Kynareth save us, here it comes again!" The wounded man made an effort to crawl away, but to no avail. The dragon was on him instantly. Everyone jumped back instinctively as the massive scaled beast swooped down and grabbed the poor man with his teeth. The man screamed as he was tossed around like a rag doll in the air before being dropped with a meaty thud. The dragon hovered in the air for a moment. Fraener felt a wave of relief when he saw that no, it was not the same dragon from Helgen. This one seemed... weaker. Strong, yes indeed, but weaker on a whole than the one from Helgen.

"FIRE!" Irileth shouted, galvanizing the men to action. "Make every arrow count!" The guards drew their strong Imperial bows out, aiming them skyward. The dragon didn't wait for the volley, it flew higher and began circling around the tower. Fraener pulled out his bow and took steady aim at the dragon. Still, it kept high above, not coming down from the clouds. If not for the burning wreckage around them, it would be pitch black. With a rush of wind, the dragon landed atop the tower, the old stones protesting loudly the new weight.

The air was filled with the twang of bowstrings as the guards fired their volley of arrows. Two dozen in all, most harmlessly hit the stone tower, the remaining glancing off the tough scales of the dragon. The dragon roared again, and lifted itself off the tower. It launched into a steep dive directly at the formation of guards. Those nearest the edge scattered, while those in the middle were crushed under the massive weight of the beast.

The beast then let out a gout of fire. "YOL!" At first Fraener wasn't sure he had heard it, but the second time he was convinced the dragon was speaking in some language he didn't know. Looking around at the others confirmed they didn't hear the word like he did.

"Make use of that bow, boy," Irileth shouted in his ear, "the men are getting slaughtered. We have to help them!" Without waiting for a response, the Dunmer jumped off and ran, full tilt into the fight. She blasted the dragon's hindquarters with lightning: it roared and turned to face her. Snapping his jaws angrily, the dragon swiped at Irileth, narrowly missing the housecarl as she dodged this way and that. Fraener fired a few arrows, but they mostly went wide, the dragon moving too rapidly to be a steady target.

Tiring of the ground, the dragon lifted itself off the ground and hovered. Rallying around the housecarl, the surviving guards launched a volley of arrows at the exposed dragon. The soft underbelly was pierced, eliciting a roar of anger from the beast. He positioned himself above the guards, Irileth still blasting lightning, and unleashed another gout of fire.

"We've got to take him down!" Strid'r shouted. Fraener nodded, taking careful aim for his next shot. A quick prayer to Kynareth and he let the arrow fly. It flew straight and true, finding the mark where the wing meets the shoulder of the dragon. He howled, the wing faltering. With an effort, he threw himself higher into the air, before coming crashing down a hundred feet from the tower. The three companions wasted no time as they chased after it.

Strid'r ran, sword swinging, straight at the dragon's face. Not even the Ebony could pierce the tough dragon scales, but it did batter the dragon's head around. But the dragon was hardly idle: it snapped at the Redguard as he attacked, and Strid'r would have lost an arm if not for Fraener's well-timed arrow.

Mirmulnir wasn't worried. Such is not the way of the dovah. The arrow to the wing was a lucky shot, but nothing that will stop him from finishing this group. There was something off about the Nord bowman: almost felt like an old enemy, and a friend at the same time. Still, they would all die, the Redguard, the Nord and the Dunmer woman. Brave, yes, but they were no match for him. As he fought, tiring out his foes with constant movements and thrashing, his mind wandered to the future. Maybe Alduin would promote him after this. Maybe he would take Paarthurnax's place. He was still thinking about it when he felt something on his back.

J'Ruq was seriously rethinking his plan. It had seemed like a good idea back on the ground, but upon secondary contemplation, perhaps climbing onto the back of a bloodthirsty dragon wasn't such a good move. Still, he had to pull through it. The dragon started to try and shake him off, but he didn't realize he was up against a Khajiit. Cats never fall off something they're hanging on to. He dug his claws between the scales and hung tough.

Mirmulnir was in a dilemma now. He couldn't fight the damned Redguard, while deflecting arrows, while shaking whatever was on his back off. He decided the Redguard had to go. Pushing his whole body forward, he made one last lunge at the Redguard. Catching the man's shoulder, he pulled back with all his force. The man never stood a chance, and he was flung right underneath the dragon, the perfect place for Mirmulnir's teeth to sink into. At last, he opened his mouth in triumph and moved to bite down.

J'Ruq, unaware of his friend's situation, finally found what he was looking for. A small opening at the base of the dragon's skull, where it meets the neck. _Just like an Argonian_. Without further ado, he pulled his dagger out and plunged it violently into the space between the scales.

Fire. The dragon's head was on fire. Pain rocketed through his body, paralyzing him. Mirmulnir struggled to breathe as he felt his head swell, the blood draining out of his new wound. He rose up on his hind legs, sending the Khajiit on his back earthward. Strid'r, capitalizing on the opportunity, thrust his blade into the beast's exposed underbelly. The softer flesh parted for the Ebony blade, slicing neatly through the skin and into the flesh.

The dragon roared again, this time far more pain than anger. He aimed his head to the sky, shouting for Alduin, for Akatosh, for anyone to come help him. Then, he felt an arrow pierce his neck.

Fraener lowered his bow. Somehow he knew that the dragon was finished. It fell to the ground, Strid'r rolling out of the way. It's red eyes scanned dimly, landing on the young Nord. The eyes went wide with fear, and it shouted out "Dovahkin! No!" Then he fell again, this time not getting up. The eyes closed, and the dragon finally died.

Battered, bruised and bloody, the survivors of the guard detachment headed towards the massive dragon corpse. Irileth, nursing some scratches and a nasty arm sprain, hobbled over to the three dragonslayers. "Well, there's no beating around the bush here. This would have been a disaster without you three. Whiterun is in your debt. Strid'r," she said, helping the man up, "that's a nasty looking shoulder wound. We should get you to the temple of Kynareth as soon as we get back to the city." The Redguard, panting from exhaustion, just nodded. The housecarl turned to the Khajiit, who was dusting himself off. For someone who was just flung off a dragon in death throes, he didn't look too badly battered. "I do not know your name, Khajiit, but I offer you Whiterun's thanks."

"Thank you, kind Dunmer mistress. They call me J'Ruq, Khajiit wanderer. At your service." He added a gracious bow at the end, shooting Fraener a whisper of a smile.

"Well, J'Ruq, you've proven yourself to be a fine warrior. Such a feat is well respected here in Skyrim, I assure you. If there is anything the city could offer you, please do not hesitate."

"Ah, there is one thing. The winter nights, they are cold in Skyrim. The warmth of an inn, or just being within the walls would take the bite out of the air." He added a coy smile to his request.

Irileth seemed a bit uncomfortable as she replied. "I can certainly petition the Jarl on your behalf for entry to the city. Laws, ages old of course, are not easily undone." J'Ruq offered another bow and thanked her. Finally, she turned to face Fraener.

"I have nothing to offer you, Fraener Frost-Crown. You have performed admirably, but it is beyond my station to give you anything. No, you shall be rewarded by the Jarl himself. And I will personally vouch for your valor and heroism when the time comes. The Jarl is a generous man who respects valor and prowess, as well as honor and genteel. You _will_ be rewarded appropriately, I assure you, for your actions today." She went on to explain to him, in no uncertain terms, that his service to the city was unprecedented, and to expect nothing but the highest honor the Jarl could give him.

But Fraener wasn't focused on that at all. He was staring at the dragon's corpse. Again, the word "fus" kept repeating, over and over, in his head. It refused to let up, and this time his vision started to cloud over. He heard a gasp from the guards, but it was dim. An incredible surge of energy filled him, but the word kept repeating, like a drum. _Fus. Fus. Fus._

The energy continued to fill him, until he felt his limbs would burst. Then... he felt memories. They were hazy at first, indistinct. The rush of wind beneath him, soaring high through the air. Then shouting, the voice echoing off mountains far distant. Serene pride, arrogance filling him, watching the lesser life scurry around on the ground. Still more shouts, then images started to become stronger. Men wearing masks, all gathered around a temple, making human sacrifices. The overseers forcing men to work, a near-slave state.

The memories kept coming, faster now. And still, _fus, fus, fus_. Then a fight, some sort of battle. Something not understood, but fear overarching. Being hunted, hiding in the mountains far away from people. Surviving off meagre game, then being discovered by wicked humans with long blades and having to run again. Then... the great black dragon, a wave of relief and happiness at his return.

There came a greater wave of energy, this time vastly stronger than himself. A single thought entered him, a single idea. Force. His whole being was force, the will to push something away, force it, blast it with raw power. To harness it all. To shout. He felt the energy reach a peak, gurgling up through him. It rose from his stomach, into his throat. The words formed to his lips, this time with power. As his lips parted the power rushed out from his whole being, his entire essence blasting forward with an unstoppable, unrelenting force.

"FUS!"

**A/N: That's all for now folks! Check back in December for the continuation of the story! As usual, like, comment, subscribe, share, and give me ideas! I'm a wicked rookie, so the more you give me the better the story will be. Anyway, have a great Fall everyone!**


	10. Chapter 10 At the Foot of the World

**A/N: After what seemed like an eternity away from you all, I have returned! Busy busy busy have I been, such that this piece took me nearly the entire fall to write, and half was written tonight alone. But as promised, here is the continuation of the story. I hope to add two more chapters over this long break, hopefully more. **

**Enjoy my loyal readers!**

"Well, that certainly was interesting." Fulthiem's eyes scanned the mostly flat field between him and the Western Watchtower, the still burning wreckage and charred grass providing an eerie flickering light that illuminated the figures standing in a small semi-circle. He recognized Irileth, the Dunmer housecarl, by her distinctive slender frame, as well as the small detachment of guards. The other three he did not recognize at all, making one out to be a Khajiit but nothing beyond that.

By far, the most interesting part of the evening was the dragon. Fulthiem had never seen one before, but had read up extensively on the subject. Thus, he was more than a little familiar with the process of killing them if only in theory. Because of that, he knew this one was not dead: it could be resurrected and fight another day. From his vantage point, he could see the dragon corpse, the massive reptilian form just laying there amidst the guards who looked on passively: perhaps still surprised that such a beast from legend exists, let alone that it could be slain.

Pulling out a small pad of paper, he scribbled notes furiously. It was a habit he had taken to a few years ago, helping him to organize his thoughts as he melded into what seemed to be a more permanent isolation. His hand slid down his leg to his outer thigh, touching the hilt of the katana blade he kept hidden, just in case. Over time, much like his own past, the katana had very much so become a part of him: a vestigial reminder of his previous life. A previous life which, it appeared, was about to make an abrupt re-entry.

When the first Stormcloak runners reported dragons, Fulthiem immediate poured over his old notes about the mysterious creatures. While he was no loremaster, he began to understand how the beasts operated. So, he guessed that the dragon would attack Whiterun next, after having burned down Helgen and terrorized the countryside. And he was not disappointed. He admired those fighting the dragon, his own sword arm twitching for action.

As he continued to scribble notes, a breeze picked up. Cursing, he reached out from his prone position to grab his fleeing notebook. What he saw next surprised him beyond even the arrival of the dragon (although in hindsight, it was a development he should have expected). The dragon corpse began to glow, as if the bones inside were burning. Forgetting about his notebook, Fulthiem squinted into the glow surrounding the tower. A rush of air blew by as the light from dragon corpse glowed brighter.

The light started to arc outward, filling the space above the milling figures. It hovered for a moment, then rushed down to a single figure in the group. The man was engulfed in the white light, swirling around him like a type of mist. It surrounded him entirely, leaving only a vague outline of the man within.

"By the gods..." Fulthiem whispered, his heart racing with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. This was something he had read about in bits of long forgotten texts, tiny scraps of stories mostly lost to the ravages of time. It was the very last thing he ever would have expected to see, and yet before his eyes was the innumerable truth. Whoever this mysterious man is, he was absorbing the dragon's soul. Fulthiem was so entirely sure of it, he felt a wet tear on his cheek. He prayed to every divine, even Talos. Especially Talos. For now he knew that, at long last, the salvation had arrived. Skyrim's hero was born, and he had been so honored to witness it.

The light slowly faded, the figure becoming an indistinct dark frame once more. The dragon corpse was now no more than burning bones, with a large plume of smoke rising up into the sky. There was a moment of silence, as the smoke billowed and the ancient dragon bones crackled in the night. Then it was punctuated by a single, violent outburst that sent everyone nearby sprawling. "FUS!"

The sound of the Voice was not unfamiliar to the older Nord watching from afar, but somehow this one felt different. It felt more natural, perhaps, or maybe more... real. As if all the others he had heard were imitations, but this was the real deal. He watched as the shouter stumbled from his own shout, struggling to keep upright. The housecarl, who was standing directly in front of him when he shouted, was thrown a fair distance. She shrugged off help from the guards who instantly ran over to help her, while the khajiit and another man helped the shouter stay standing.

A vibration started, low at first. The air hummed with the energy, seeming to fly through the air. The clouds parted, revealing a clear night sky, as the ground and land around them began to shake. Following the vibrations came the words. One word, repeated three times. _Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin. _It echoed across the plains, the valleys and the mountains. The words faded, and the vibration ceased shortly after. Fulthiem felt as though he were in a dream: the voice of the Greybeards, such as had not been heard in ages, now grace the skies of Skyrim once more.

The figure was on the ground now, having collapsed entirely. His two friends, plus a few guards, began carrying him on their backs. After the moment of awe wore off, the entire group began to walk back to the city, carrying the dead and injured. They walked in solemn silence, although Fulthiem had a feeling there would be some merry drinking for glory at the Bannered Mare.

Reaching blindly in the darkness, he grabbed his notebook and tore out a piece of paper. He didn't know the man's name, but he knew his time had come to do his duty. So he pulled out his travel quill and began writing. _You caused quite a stir when..._

**[Just a page break. Nothing to see here.]**

"But what does all this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here?" Proventus, in his usual space next to the Jarl, crossed his arms and shifted his weight. "Capable as he may be, I don't see any signs of him being this, what, 'Dragonborn'".

"Nord nonsense?" The tall, burly Nord standing opposite the Jarl became red in the face with anger as he spluttered in response. "You... you puffed-up ignorant... these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the first Empire!" He took a sharp intake of breath as he prepared to go off on the Cyrodiil-born man, but fell silent and deflated when Balgruuf raised his hand to silence him.

"Hrongar, do not be so hard on Proventus. He is a foreigner to our customs." The Jarl allowed himself a moment to reprieve, reaching for a bottle of mead by his feet. After a swig, he motioned with his hand to the Redguard and Khajiit waiting patiently by the hearth.

Strid'r walked with a slight limp, his shoulder wrapped in bandages; J'Ruq was back in his traveling attire, having returned the glass armor to the caravan gratefully. They bowed respectfully as they walked up to the Jarl's throne. Both were greatly fatigued, but neither showed it in their faces or their bodies; warriors do not show weakness to anyone, let alone a noble. Together, at the Jarl's command, the two recanted the battle with the dragon and Fraener's mysterious shout. "Well, it would seem some congratulations are in order," the Jarl said as he motioned for one of the manservants nearby. The young man bowed gracefully as he carried over a small chest.

"For you, Strid'r of Hammerfell," Balgruuf intoned majestically as he opened the chest, the young manservant kneeling beside him. Gingerly he pulled out a golden ring. The center of the ring was adorned with a massive emerald ring, with the band being completed with lesser gems. "A ring of Atmora. There were once five hundred of these, worn by every Companion who came with Ysgramor to settle Skryim. Over the years they were lost or destroyed, all save for a few dozen. I myself wear one: as does every Jarl and the High King himself. The rest are curiosities worth killing over, so I'd keep this one close to your chest." Strid'r's chest tightened suddenly as he felt for his gem in his breast pocket. He let loose a light sigh of relief when he felt it was still there. "This ring was a gift from the Harbinger of the Companions to my great grandfather. He was instructed to bestow it on a man who could accomplish a feat that would ring through the ages. Killing a dragon certainly qualifies. The ring has some... magical qualities to it, granting its user greater endurance and strength than that of a normal man." The Jarl gave it to Strid'r, adding quickly "I hope you use it wisely."

Strid'r bowed and thanked the Jarl before stepping back down. The Jarl turned to the Khajiit, standing proudly in his ragged leather. "It has been a long time since a free Khajiit has entered the city of Whiterun, let alone my palace. Laws in place from ages ago, at a time when your people were cutthroats and thieves, prevent free Khajiits from entering without special permissions. Yet, in this day and age such laws are rapidly becoming obsolete. Perhaps it's time to acknowledge our beast brethren. Perhaps the laws of old should be unwrote. For your service, your selfless show of willingness to sacrifice everything for my city, I grant you and your kind free admittance in the city. They shall be treated as equal citizens in the city and the hold as those of all Imperial citizens. The J'Ruq Edict shall be heard in all corners of Whiterun."

Nazeem, standing in attendance along with the thanes from the Battle-Born and Gray-Mane families, scoffed and rolled his eyes. The Jarl took no notice, but J'Ruq shot a look at the wealthy landowner as he stepped back from the Jarl's throne and stood next to Strid'r. The Jarl glanced at Irileth, her arm in a sling, and sighed.

"And now to deal with the dragonborn. None can deny the Greybeards spoke, nor his sudden learning of the Voice. This Fraener Frost-Crown may stand paramount amongst us: indeed, if he is the dragonborn he would outrank each of us. But, as my thanes urge me to recognize, the Greybeards have yet to proclaim him as such. Therefore, he is still a Skyrim citizen: no more, no less." The thanes, especially Nazeem, smiled smugly at their successful movement to deny this newcomer status in their hold. "However," the Jarl added, a smile coming to his face, "he has accomplished the greatest feat I have ever heard in this age. The slaying of a dragon is more than a worthy of the highest honor I can award. Therefore, with the power invested in me as Jarl of Whiterun, I hereby name Fraener Frost-Crown of Falkreath a Thane of Whiterun. He now stands as a gentile member of Whiterun. Let all hear and know that by his heroic and valorous deeds he has risen above the common rabble and stands equal to my court." Immediately, the thanes began to grumble and protest, each raising points about tradition and order, about how their families waited generations before being recognized as thanes, about honor and so on. The Jarl raised his hand and they fell silent, except for Vignar Gray-Mane who continued to grumble. "This court will accept my decision, and we are adjourned." The thanes, still grumbling, stood and began milling about as the Jarl, accompanied by Proventus and Irileth, left for his quarters.

**[Page Break. Move along.]**

"Don't sit up so quickly!"

Groaning, Fraener huffed indignantly. Leaning forward, he stretched his sore back and rubbed his head. Bits and pieces of the previous night kept coming back to him, as well as memories he knew were not his that threatened to overwhelm him periodically. Noting a bowl of soup he reached and grabbed it over the objections of the colorfully clad woman tending to him. "So, not meaning to be rude," the injured Nord said between spoonfuls of soup, "but who are you exactly, and where am I?"

As if by a practiced ritual, the woman stood up and straightened her robes. "I am Danica, head priestess of the Temple of Kynareth. This is where the wounded of Whiterun come to pray and be healed." She gestured towards the other beds and, sure enough, there were several dozen men and women lying there. Some were calling softly for help; others were unable to even do so much. Fraener noticed that a great many of them were clad in the Whiterun guard armor, their tunics badly singed and torn. He noticed suddenly that Danica was watching him carefully. Turning sharply, he inquired what she was on about. "Sorry," she said, her cheeks becoming rosy, "it's just... some of the men reported that you... are you a master of the Thu-um? You do not show the usual signs of one."

"Thu-um? Nay, I have not mastered the voice."

Danica brought in a sharp intake of breath. "Then what they say is true. You must be... dragonborn." The word repeated in the young Nord's head, tales from his youth. His father telling him stories of Tiber Septim or Talos as he was known in Skyrim, a true Nord hero. The dragonborn emperors too, Reman Cyrodiil before them, and the legend: one day the dragonborn would arrive and save Skyrim from a great foe.

Suddenly his vision was filled with that strange figure from his dreams. The world around him, the temple, Danica, all melted away. He was standing before the golden eyed warrior again. Closer, Fraener could now see he was a Nord. A prominent browline and hefty muscles showed him to indeed be the archetype Nord, likely of the most pure blood type. Cold, piercing eyes shone through as he seemed to look both at and through Fraener. Wordlessly, the warrior walked over and placed his hand on the younger Nord's forehead.

Images flashed through Fraener's head. A tall mountain, thrusting into the clouds and above: an imposing stone monastery, close-mouthed monks walking around in silence; a Nord crypt; and a dragon atop a mountain bathed in the clouds. Part prophecy, part memory, they were seared into his brain, the images still dancing when he returned to the world around him. As his vision cleared, he saw Danica looking worriedly at him. Turning his head he could see that all the people in the temple were staring at him. Clearing his throat, Fraener respectfully asked what the deal was.

"You started babbling incoherently," one of the guards said, wincing as he sat up on his bed. "Sounded all crazy to me."

"It wasn't incoherent," another guard interjected. "He was speaking in the language of the Tongues. You know, Nords who learned how to speak the language of the dragons, like the Greybeards."

"Or Ulfric Stormcloak," another offered. The men all nodded in agreement and fell silent. Fraener shook his head in confusion.

"I think... I think I'm well enough to get up. Do you know where my friends are?"

"You're not well enough to get up. But your Redguard and Khajiit friend? I patched up the Redguard two days ago when he came in-"

"TWO DAYS AGO?!" There was a ripple wave that went out from his mouth and shook the walls around the temple. He dropped his voice to a whisper when he added "I've been here for two days?"

Danica nodded. "You all came back late Tirdas. Today is Fredas. You've been asleep since then." She paused, looking at him intently. "Much has changed in your absence." Fraener swung his legs to the edge of his bed over Danica's protestations. To his satisfaction, he was able to stand unsupported. Stretching his limbs, the young Nord walked brazenly to the door while Danica spoke frantically, spouting warnings of how to stay safe.

Finally, as he reached the door, he held up his hand. "Danica, please. Thank you for all you've done, honestly. But I can't just stay here, cooped up in a bed. I doubt you'd understand."

Danica's face fell, her eyes misting over. "I understand quite well, I should think, young dragonborn." Without another word, she turned and went back to the temple. Fraener turned to say something more but fell short, instead walking out into the courtyard below Dragonsreach, feeling the warm sun on his face.

**[Not the words you are looking for.]**

"Bring him to me."

A few moments later, the badly burned Justicar was dragged by his tunic into the dimly lit chamber room. One of the many ancient abandoned fortifications, the Thalmor had converted it into a headquarters of sorts, complete with a holding area for their investigations. In full Aldmeri regalia, Hirhune had himself atop a throne in the center of a massive hearth lit chamber. The two Thalmor soldiers threw the High Elf onto the ground, where he picked himself up indignantly. His robes were in tatters from a week in the holding cell. When he realized who he was standing before, he immediately bowed down. "My Lord, please tell me what I have done to displease you."

Hirhune did not immediately reply. He looked down at his servant, the damage done by the Dunmer girl starting to cause a spreading infection. The Thalmor Commander's lip curled with disgust, part of him wanting to summon lightning and kill the waste of a mer right there. But he restrained himself. "You have failed at your task. It was a simple task, one that I could have trusted a child."

"My Lord I have intelligence that the Redguard has taken the stone into Cyrodiil to meet with accomplices -"

Hirhune jumped to his feet and jumped down from his throne, striking the kneeling high elf. The mer did not react, allowing himself to fall to the floor. Hirhune spat on the ground next to his servant. "He did not cross the border. I checked, something you should have done. No border crossings . In your hurry to prove your worth, you glossed over important details."

"My Lord... please... it is possible to cross the border without-"

"DO NOT INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE. Nobody crosses the border without our knowledge, whether it be licit or illicit."

"P-p-please master, I-"

"You've been mislead," Hirhune said, his demeanor becoming calm. The proper state of mind for the Thalmor. Elves must lead their emotions, not be lead by them. His flash of anger was a brief let go of his more primal side, but now it had passed. "Mislead by an increasingly cunning foe. But think for a moment: do you think if there was some surviving remnant of the Blades conspiring to use a weapon so powerful that we would have not heard wind of it? Further, that only _now_, conveniently as you chase this Redguard, word slips via a greedy innkeeper that a major force is plotting in Cyrodiil, a province firmly under Thalmor control? For once I would have wished you thought with your head instead of your bravado."

"Master Hirhune, I will redouble my efforts. I shall make this man's capture my only purpose in life."

"That will not be necessary," Hirhune replied dismissively. When the subordinate Thalmor looked confused, he went on. "The Embassy had decided there are... more important crises arising in Skyrim at the moment. Surely you are aware of the sudden reappearance of dragons?"

"Dragons?" the high elf said in disbelief. "We'd heard the rumors, but assumed it was just that."

"Unfortunately, the rumors were true. What this means, I do not know. But the Embassy has pulled back support for most field operations, save the essential ones and those specifically dealing with the dragons. I'll be seeing the Ambassador about making an exception. But for now we've been ordered to cease indefinitely."

"I can surely make a good case sir. Firsthand account of the tenacity of this Redguard."

"Again, that will not be necessary. You've been reassigned. In two weeks you will report to the station chief of the Black Marsh province." The High Elf allowed himself exactly one second of outrage and injustice, his eyes glowing with murderous intent. Years of conditioning kicked in, and he calmed back down as he resigned himself to dealing with the fish-people for the rest of his days.

"Master Hirhune, I thank you for allowing me to serve in your unit. It has been an honor."

"You are dismissed, Justicar." With that, the elf bowed respectfully and left, turning sharply on his heels. Hirhune, snorting with cold amusement, grabbed his quill and began writing a letter to the Ambassador, informing her of his imminent arrival.

**[P-p-page break-k-k]**

The Throat of the World, tallest mountain in Tamriel, stood over the hamlet of Ivarstead like a mythological protector. The hamlet's entirely livelihood was made off of pilgrims to High Hrothgar: and they got their money's worth from Fraener's group. A Redguard, a Khajiit, the newly minted Dragonborn Thane and his Housecarl. Fraener was still getting used to the idea of... well, everything really. His Thaneship, a Housecarl and, of course, him being dragonborn. Most of him acted rationally: it had to be a mix up. There's no way he, a simple villager, could be the _dragonborn_. That was something reserved for kings and emperors. Gods, even. But not him. He'd get up to the ancient monastery and they would tell him he was not the one.

"My Thane?" Lydia's voice jerked him back to reality. The four of them were sitting at one of the long tables at the local inn, eating a warm breakfast of cheese and bread and a bit of mead.

"Sorry," Fraener mumbled, "I must've gazed off for a second." Lydia showed no emotion on her face or in her body as she nodded. Indeed, Lydia's stoicness was a bit off-putting, as was her insistence on calling him Thane.

"Strid'r suggested you not use your powers in public, lest we garner too much attention." Strid'r flicked his eyes at Lydia quickly. Earlier, there was an argument over whether or not to tell Lydia they were fleeing the Thalmor. Ultimately deciding that since she was now too involved to escape the Thalmor's wrath, they told her the shorthand. She accepted it as easily as if they told her it would rain later that day.

Fraener agreed, and together they left the table. Crossing the small bridge, they reached the point where they would split. The dragonborn looked up at the massive mountain, obscured by the clouds. "Well, you'd best be off to Riften then." Strid'r nodded, looking down at the path, then back up at Fraener.

"Listen," he started, his eyes examining the lanky Nord, "the Thalmor aren't going to stop looking for you, perhaps even more so now. For all we know, Riften is a well laid trap. If there's one thing I've learned it's safety in numbers. Let's plan to meet up when you get down from the mountain. What do you say?"

Before he could respond, Lydia cut him off. "The Greybeards have a very long, very arduous training regimen for the dragonborn. Sources say that Talos spent nearly a year on the mountain." Realizing herself, she fell silent and looked at Fraener.

"Whatever training I might need, it will have to to wait." Lydia said nothing, turning back to face at nothing in particular. "I'll head towards Riften as soon as possible, or I'll send a courier somewhere we can all meet up." He turned to the Khajiit standing quietly. "You stay out of trouble no J'Ruq." The feline man smiled a grin of wicked teeth.

"Trouble? J'Ruq does not get _into_ trouble. Trouble finds him. Case and point: he finds two travelers, next he's running for his life and fights a dragon. Hardly his fault at all. Besides," he clapped Stridr on the back. "With Tamriel's most cautious Redguard, I think I'll be alright." Smiling back, Fraener just shook his head. "May your life lead you to warm sands," he finished the traditional Khajiit farewell.

"Stay warm up there," Strid'r called as he and J'Ruq walked towards Rfiten.

"Stay _alive_ down there!" Fraener called back. In the dense forest it didn't take long until the two pairs were out of sight from each other, the two Nords headed up the seven-thousand steps.

**A/N: The group is splitting up, one headed towards Riften and the other to High Hrothgar. Also, Fulthiem's Blade-heritage is by no means official: I just always found it curious he had Blade's sword. It is suspected he may have been a Blade hiding out from the Thalmor, and was thus a reasonable writer for the letters to a friend. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this part of the story, there's much more to come (including the Thieves' Guild, my favorite). I have one more OC main character to add to the story a female Mage. If you guys have any name or race ideas, PM or comment away! And as usual, rate, follow, share, comment, subscribe: the whole nine yards (sorry, **_**eight**_** yards).**


	11. Chapter 11 Mages and Vampires Galore

**A/N: Readers! In my sleepless nights I have created another chapter to the continuing saga! And at long last I introduce my last primary OC: a young Mage girl. Also, having recently been playing Dawnguard for the first time, I can now incorporate those themes into the story. One day, perhaps, I'll play Dragonborn. Anyway, enjoy the most recent addition to Skyrim: A Redguard's Tale.**

"Can't wait to count out your coin!"

"You Nords never learn, do you?" The Nord bandit swung his greatsword waist height towards Strid'r, who, wisely seeing that his own sword would not deflect, sidestepped. The burly bandit kept with the swing. He watched the man go careening past and into a wall, his sword dropping to the ground with a clatter. Strid'r saw the man close his eyes with a look of regret before the Redguard slid his sword between the bandit's ribs.

"YEEARGH!" Strid'r turned swiftly to face the new threat, a second bandit clad in torsoless fur armor raising a nasty looking mace above his head. The invading Redguard dodged beneath him, knocking the man flat on his feet with a low tackle. As he struggled with the man, Strid'r pulled a dagger from his belt and plunged it hilt-deep into the bandit's bare chest.

"That's why you wear armor," Strid'r quipped through clenched teeth.

"Aye. Lesson unlearned, I suppose." The bandit let loose his last breath. Strid'r looked around the bandit camp, following a trail of blood that led around a bend. At the end of the trail lay a dead Orc in full plate armor, dead of an obvious throat wound. Looking up, Strid'r saw J-Ruq cleaning his dagger with a satisfied face.

"Thanks for the help back there," Strid'r shot sarcastically.

"Anything for my travelling companion," the Khajiit replied with a grin. Snorting, Strid'r bent down to check the bandit chief for anything worth taking. Some precious gems, a necklace or two was all he found. Typical highwayman bandit pickings. Seeing the gems reminded the warrior of his own gem, which he felt for in his pocket. Feeling it, he breathed a sigh of relief. There was a sudden rustle of leaves and a gust of wind, triggering Strid'r's battle instincts.

"Ah ah ah. Put it down, or you'll have a charred cat on your hands." The woman directed the threat at the steady eyed Redguard holding his Ebony blade leveled in her direction. In one hand, she held J-Ruq's neck; in the other a nasty looking flame spell pressing against his chest. When Strid'r hesitated, she increased the intensity, earning a yowl from the Khajiit. Strid'r put his sword down instantly.

"What do you want?" Strid'r question hung in the air for a moment.

"Only what's rightfully mine. Give me the jewels you just recovered from these bandits."

"How are _you_ the rightful victor of this battle? I didn't see you anywhere during the fighting."

"True, but I've been tracking this group for a few days. I'm not about to let all that go to waste. But that hardly really matters. I've got the flame, you've got the spoils. Pay up, or the Khajiit gets it."

J-Ruq pulled at his captor indignantly. "Invisibility spell. Cheap trick. Very cheap trick. Even J-Ruq would not use it." The mage pressed the flame closer.

"Shutup. Give me the loot, quickly." Strid'r reached into his bag and grabbed the gems and gold he recovered and passed it over to her. When she put them away, she let go of J-Ruq and took a step back. With a flourish, she flung her hood back and revealed a full head of brunette hair which, in Strid'r's opinion, meshed well with her darker skin. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. We'll have to meet up some time and do it again." J-Ruq let a feral growl loose and swung around at his former captor, sliding his dagger up to his hand and preparing to strike. Before he could, however, he felt his muscles tense up and lock in place. To his dismay, the Khajiit fell motionless to the ground.

"What did you do to him!" Strid'r demanded as he picked up his blade and pointed it at the mage, who's hands were in a battle position. A green mist flickered in the palm of her hands.

"Relax," she said, "he's just been temporarily paralyzed. It'll wear off in a few minutes. But really, I wouldn't want to have to kill either of you: such a mess."  
>"What's your name, girl?"<p>

"Yrin. Yrin of Winterhold. Keep your eyes forward, Redguard. You never know who's going to be looking for that stone in your pocket." Strid'r's eyes widened then narrowed as he took a menacing step forward. Before he could attack, Yrin disappeared in a plume of smoke. When it cleared, she was gone.

J-Ruq stood up, massaging his sore, formerly paralyzed, muscles. "Hate magics. Cheap, unfair." Strid'r, sighing, sheathed his blade and passed a red vialed potion to the Khajiit, who gratefully drank up.

"What a waste of a day," Strid'r commented idly as he tossed the rest of the camp for any scraps. "We've lost a good two hours of walking: I'd say we should bed down for the night. No use in trying to get any farther." J-Ruq agreed, taking the first watch. After moving the bodies, the companions moved into the already set up camp, coaxing the still-burning flames back to life.

From the bushes, Yrin watched the pair go about their business. She was more than confident in her invisibility spell holding, allowing her to relax her guard as she observed them. The Redguard, Strid'r, reacted very strongly when she mentioned the stone in his pocket. Like a moth to a flame, she felt the tug of the magical object, calling her blood to unlock its power. She didn't know what it was, only that it was arcane and immensely powerful.

The loot she gained from the two would give her the money to last at least a week, so she contented herself with that victory. Slipping away from the camp under moonlight, she trekked west towards Whiterun, opting to take the northern route past the throat of the world. She had not made it two miles when her invisibility spell suddenly broke down. Before she could even throw up a ward, Yrin felt the all too familiar feeling of being blasted with a frost spell. An icy spear pierced her left shoulder and sent her sprawling. The pain was immense, but she fought through it and instantly unleashed a blast of fire.

There was a low hiss that told her she hit her target, but in the darkness she couldn't see anything. Her magicka reserves drained, she tried desperately to crawl away but found herself hefted up by a pair of invisible arms. Violently, her hood was pulled back and she was thrown forward harshly. Indignantly, she pulled herself to her feet, if a bit wobbly.

"Reveal yourselves to me, cowards." Her words at first had no impact, but in a plush of smoke four dark-clad individuals materialized, surrounding her.

"Well, we meet again Yrin of Winterhold." The man was unnaturally pale, as if he hadn't seen the sun in some time. His eyes were red, his skin gaunt; a black smoke gathered around his legs, swirling around. Adorned in simple dark robes, his clothes seemed only to complete the darkness of his person.

"Teusfel. Was one ass-kicking not enough for you, then? Should have known you would try some underhanded trick to get your revenge. Gods know you couldn't best me in a duel." Teusfel laughed.

"Oh Yrin, you seemed to have no qualms against using invisibility to rob those two adventurers blind."

Gritting her teeth, Yrin snapped back "that was different. We were clearly not equals."

"Nor are we here, girl," Teusfel replied, cutting the young mage off. "You are but a mere mortal girl with a talent for magic while I," he paused, summoning a plume of smoke to surround his being, "have mastered death and undeath. While your flesh will wither away, mine will be forever fresh. I _am_ the magic of the night. You see, this is no contest between two equals. You may have defeated me once, but now you're in my territory. And your beloved Sun is hours away." With a hiss, he bared his vampiric teeth. "Are you prepared for your end, prey?"

"Hmph," Yrin snorted back at him. "A girl's body is found with two teethmarks and you don't think that every Nord with a torch will come looking for you? Especially when they learn it's a noblewoman's daughter? No, you'll be hunted and die in terror." Teusfel paused, looking intently at his exhausted foe. After a moment, he responded.

"I suppose there's no harm in telling you what I'm about to share: you'll be dead in a few minutes anyway. But... I want the satisfaction of you knowing your death will never be avenged." He stepped to Yrin, placing his palm on her forehead, whispering in her ear as he relayed images to her head. She saw a building with a thatched roof catching aflame, with dozens of warriors dying around a host of vampires. "Even as we speak, my brethren assault the Hall of the Vigilantes. And soon, very soon, there will be a time for my people to rule." The last image she saw the Sun blotted out, and vampires striking freely at innocents everywhere.

"By the gods..." Yrin murmured.

"Just one god, m'dear. Molog Bal." With that, he descended upon her neck, sinking his teeth into her and sucking her precious blood, feeding off her lifeforce. He felt her growing weaker when his breath was knocked out of him. Looking up and hissing, he only then felt sharpened malachite cutting through his gut. His eyes fell upon a Khajiit holding the dagger, a satisfied looked on the feline warrior's face. A look to his side and he saw his vampiric family dying around him, cut to ribbons by a Redguard's dark blade. With one last sneer, he fell back to the ground. His vision ran double, and his mind became muddled. Soon, he fell into unconsciousness.

"Easy now, easy." J-Ruq immediately bent over to help the fallen mage, pouring a poultice into her wound. It already had taken a dark purple hue, with a black smudge slowly creeping on her skin. Following it, J-Ruq ripped the robe at the shoulder, tracing a tendril of the disease making its way slowly to her heart. Hissing, he called out to Strid'r.

"What do you need?" the Redguard asked, his eyes searching the surrounding darkness for more threats.

"Creep cluster! J-Ruq needs to slow the disease from spreading."

"Disease?"

"Sanguine Vampiris. Make haste! We haven't much time." Without another word, the Hammerfell warrior darted into the night to find a creep cluster. Cradling her head in his hands, the Khajiit tried to soothe the wound, applying more poultices and feeding her a red potion. She coughed up black blood that boiled when it reached the air.

"The bodies..." she croaked. "Burn the bodies... they'll come back... burn them." J-Ruq urged her to be silent, nervously watching the darkness on her skin spread. It had reached her collarbone by the time Strid'r returned.

"Pray to the gods this works," J-Ruq said, shooting a prayer to his gods. He chewed on the root and spit it out, rubbing the paste furiously on the affected areas, especially the single tendril reaching for Yrin's heart. Slowly, the tendril began to recede, and J-Ruq breathed a sigh of relief. Still, the wound worried him, the darkness of the skin growing darker by the minute.

"We have to burn the bodies," Strid'r remarked, "fire is the only death for vampires."

"No time!" J-Ruq shot back, slumping Yrin over his shoulder. "J-Ruq must get Yrin to a temple, shrine or healer fast. Else, she will become a vampire herself." Without waiting for a reply, he set off running.

"There's no town within twenty miles!" Strid'r called out as he chased after the speedy Khajiit.

"Then we will have to run faster than the dawn!" J-Ruq replied.

**A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed it! As usual, rate, comment and subscribe. Let me know what you think of my new character. And of course, Fraener and Lydia will be featured in the next chapter, whenever I get around to it.**


	12. Chapter 12 Kingdom for a Jarl

**A/N: Okay, I promise I will return to the dragonborn storyline. But first I had to give more to the new character! This is a pretty straightforward chapter, and I'm tired. So enjoy, my loyal readers.**

Sitting atop the throne, the Jarl who fancied himself High King of Skyrim listened patiently to the words of Brunwulf Free-Winter. When he had decided the man had gone on long enough about the plight of the Dark Elves, he put his hand up to silence him. "Thank you, Brunwulf. I will consider the points you've raised. But so long as the Gray Quarter remains a haven for thieves and cutthroats, I cannot be expected to grant the residents any special favors."

"But my Jarl, these are simple, honest folk as well as loyal citizens who want nothing more than to work and live freely in the city." Brunwulf opened his stance, eyeing the Jarl evenly. It was something done more out of habit than anything else: addressing your superior with confidence was always something respected in the warrior-society of Skyrim, especially in Eastmarch. Of all the Holds of Skyrim, it was the most Nordic and least affected by the Empire's culture, which had infected Holds like Haafingar. It really was no surprise that it became the seat of the rebellion.

"Yet they continue to engage in burglary, pickpocketing, and conspire with the Argonians to smuggle contraband into the city. Not to mention the rumors of a large-scale skooma distribution center operating out of the docks. I feel for the Dunmer, truly. They've had a hard history of late, especially with the eruption of the Red Mountain. But they must learn to live _with_ us, not against us." Brunwulf winced at the mention of 'them' and 'us'.

"How can they, m'lord? They're barred from getting jobs under the employment of a Nord, from owning most property in the city, from even entering the Palace. And everywhere they turn, there's a Nord there to berate them and harass them. And the guards turn a blind eye when Nords vandalize and torch their homes, beat the men and husbands, kidnap the wives and daughters, steal with impunity -"

Jarl Ulfric was very aware the eyes of his Thanes were upon him. "And what of the Nordic victims of Dunmer crimes? Should they not have a voice? Nay, it was the Dunmer who started this conflict. When the first immigrants settled here, they pillaged and robbed all they could find. But we tolerate them. Shall we remember those who died in the riots? Fifteen loyal guards were mauled to death by these rabble-rousers! And still we tolerate them. Dozens of these 'honest folk' as you call them leave our city walls during the day to commit banditry upon the rest of the hold, returning to the city at night for mead and warmth. Yet we continue to tolerate them." The Jarl stood, his voice becoming louder and booming across the grand hall. "When our people were under siege by the forces of the Dominion, _where were they? _Here, while the children of Windhelm went to die. And now, while we are once again under attack they sit by idly and do_ nothing_, letting the children die in their place. Why should we Nords shed blood to protect elves who would throw an infant before a sword if it would save them? What do _we _owe them? NOTHING! Windhelm was a safe city, before the dark-skinned _menace_ descended like a _plague_ upon this great, beautiful NORD city! Now you are likely to get a _dagger_ in the _gut_ when you arise in the morning, and WHO SHOULD IT BE, HOLDING THE OTHER SIDE BUT A DARK ELF! And still, WE TOLERATE THEM!" To punctuate his point, he pulled his axe from his belt and threw it into the air. Then summoning his strength, shouted with the Thu-um, blasting the axe down towards the table. When the dust cleared, the axe was buried into the wooden table. Satisfied, he sat back down on his chair. "In answer, Brunwulf Free-Winter, war hero, I say nay. I shall not grant the Dark Elves of Eastmarch any reprieve or special privileges."

Throughout the entire affair, Brunwulf kept his composure. "Your hate blinds you, Ulfric Stormcloak." His piece said, the Nord turned and left the Palace. Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm, waved his hand dismissively as he attended to other business with his housecarl and top lieutenant, Galmar Stone-Fist. They were discussing the training of the troops when the door flew ajar and a courier came bolting in.

Palace guards immediately barred him from coming any further, manhandling him away from the Jarl, preparing to throw him to the steps. "Wait! Wait! I have a message for the Jarl!" The guards ignored him. Ulfric's eyes flickered up, but he continued to converse with Galmar. "Please, wait! The Hall of the Vigilant! The Hall of the Vigilant has been destroyed!" The Jarl and his housecarl stopped talking, ordering the guards to halt.

"Let him approach." The courier ran and, hastily, bowed before the throne. "Explain your message in detail, and speak quickly."

"Sir, I come from the criers of the realm. I ran as fast as I could from Dawnstar, from Jarl to Jarl. The Hall of the Vigilants has been attacked by a force of powerful vampires, who damaged the building and killed the occupants, including the Keeper himself. The Vigilants of Stendarr lie dead and strewn amongst the bodies of their assailants." Finished, the young man panted heavily, drooping his head lower.

"Who commanded these vampires? They are never this well organized nor strong, certainly not strong enough to attack the Vigilants directly."

"Unknown," the courier said, shaking his head, "they did not fly any banner recognizable, so say the survivors." Ulfric nodded his head and beckoned to his steward.

"See to it that the man has a room and a pint of mead at the inn. In the morning, provide him a horse for his trouble and pay him double the fare." Turning to address the courier, he continued "you've done well, lad. We could use such swift feet in our ranks."

"Sir?"

"I am in need of runners. I'm offering you a position within the Stormcloaks, should you wish to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Sons and Daughters of Skyrim."

The man looked up and around uncomfortably. "I'm afraid I'm no good with a sword, and could not hit a troll with a bow to save my life."

The Jarl chuckled. "We can teach you, but all I care about is your speed. What is your name, lad?"

"Randolf, sir. Randolf Fire-Brand."

"Well Randolf. Would you like to serve your country?"

"I would be honored, my King." Hearing the title of King brought a smile to Ulfric's lips. Sending him off, Ulfric turned back to Galmar.

"So, the Hall of the Vigilants. Sounds like they've bit off more than they could chew. Now they met the teeth of whatever they've provoked."

"Aye," Galmar replied. His rough, throaty voice was well known throughout the Stormcloak ranks. It most often was used to bring a tongue lashing against an insubordinate soldier. "Question is, will this slake the hunger of these vampires? Should we be on guard?"

Ulfric paused, stroking his chin. "Nay. The Vigils of Stendarr are weak group of milk-drinkers. The vampires are likely no stronger than the run of the mill variety we face anyway. But the people will be worried. Double rotations around the cities and villages, show a presence. I doubt we'll face a real threat."

Galmar nodded, but continued. "And what of the Vigilants within our reach? Should we attempt to aid them?" Ulfric immediately shook his head.

"No. Do nto treat them as hostile, but let them know they are not wanted. The Vigilants are broken in Skyrim, and I say good riddance."

"Sir?"

"The Vigilants are one of the many ways the Empire tries to control our nation. It's high-time we throw them out and set up our own group of undead hunters." Pausing, he took a swig of mead. "With some muscle, perhaps," he added.

"Something like.. the Dawnguard."

The Jarl looked sideways at his housecarl, the whisper of a smile on his face. "You've been reading some histories, I see." Galmar did not respond, so Ulfric went on. "Yes, the Dawnguard. We should support the establishment of a group. It will help secure our legitimacy to the other leaders of Tamriel."

"We will lose some of our best warriors to the lure of this group, I'm sure."

"We can spare them: all our warriors are the best." Galmar nodded, glancing at the stone-cold Stormcloak guards who keep a watch on Ulfric at all times. Ever since their capture by the Empire in an ambush, they've tightened security quite a bit.

"You know who would be perfect to lead them, right? Isran. Heard he's out on his own, having been kicked out of the Vigilants. He would be ideal for getting them up and running, maybe even leading them."

"If I know Isran, he's already started."

[**And then Akatosh said "Let there be a page break" and so there was]**

Yrin was floating. It was like a sea of white rippling around her, giving her weightlessness. _I'm dying_, she heard herself think flatly. Indeed, even as she watched her body began to turn black. Smoke billowed around her legs, spreading up her torso and to her neck. She felt it tighten around her throat, consuming her entire head. With her last effort, she closed her eyes and let the smoke consume her entirely.

Like an eel struck, the dark smoke fled her form as a white light blasted a wave towards her. She felt herself galvanized and rose to squint at the source of the light. Slowly dimming, the source showed itself to be a staff. Holding this powerful staff was a simply-clad man with a flowing beard. With a gentle hand, he reached out and touched Yrin's forehead.

"Your time has not yet come, child. There is still a part to play." Yrin bowed her head meekly. The man gently lifted her chin, looking her deep in the eyes. "Look, child. Look and believe." Yrin stared deeply into the man's eyes, seeing many things. She saw a college above the sea, a strange spectral man, some powerful dead skeleton in a mask and...

Those two travellers she robbed, accompanied by a third Nord she didn't recognize. They were calling for her, extending their hands to pull her forward. The image faded, leaving Yrin starting into pure, blinding white eyes. They grew brighter than the greatest dawn, blasting her back from the sheer force. After a moment more, she felt herself fall through the white floor.

Like a brick to the ground, she returned to her body. Instantly she awoke, her adrenaline shooting through her body like an arrow; when she arose to look around, she found herself in a spartan room with a small shrine sitting over her bed. She knew it well: it was the one that could be found in every Nordic village somewhere. The Shrine to Arkay kept the cycle of birth and death in check throughout the entire Tamrielic world.

The young mage closed her eyes as she traced the two teeth marks on her neck, feeling the heavy bumps she would carry for the rest of her life. The memories of the vampires came flooding back to her, and she threw her legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand on the cold, hard stone floor.

"Easy now, girl!" Yrin turned to the direction the noise came, instinctively throwing a ward around herself and summoning fire in the other hand. There stood an old priestess, a bowl of soup in her hands. Yrin didn't balk, however, her stance was wobbly. The woman put the soup down and ignored the threatening fire spell. "You should lay back down, Yrin of Winterhold. And then you must eat. Far too weak to do anything else. Why, I think if you should use that spell it would kill you." Yrin glanced at her hand and, growling discontentedly, dispelled it. Letting her ward drop, she fell back to her bed.

"Who are you, how did I get here and how do you know my name?" The priestess chuckled as she brought the soup over to Yrin. The older woman sat herself calmly at the edge of the bed, letting the defiant young mage spoonfeed herself.

"You young ones, always asking questions. One day, you'll find that the questions are irrelevant. It's the answers that matter." Getting no response, she went on. "I am Helgird, priestess of Arkay in this fair city of Windhelm. How I know your name and how you got here are intimately linked. You showed up at the stables by an exhausted pair of travellers, a Khajiit and a Redguard. The two collapsed once you were taken in by the guards, but not before insisting you be treated for Sanguinaire Vampiris. Which, thanks to those two, we caught just in the nick of time. They told me your name, and that any expenses incurred they would pay on your behalf. Not that I would charge. Fighting the undead, or the near-dead, is my calling."

"So I'm..."

"Cured, yes. And the fastest recovery I've ever seen. You must be favored by Arkay."

"How long have I been here?"

"Only a day or two, unconscious." Accepting this in stride, she went on to question her about the two who brought her in. "Oh, I think they're staying in the inn at the pleasure of the King. From what I hear, that handsome Redguard fellow it making money going bareknuckled with the drunken Nords who frequent there."

**["I will never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire"]**

"Come... on... give me another... go." Putting his hand on the Nord's shoulder, Strid'r helped the man to his feet.

"You've had enough, friend. Go get some mead." The Nord wiped the blood from his mouth as he stumbled to the bar. Strid'r stretched his fingers within his glove, feeling the soreness of the brawl still. The Redguard counted the hundred coins he earned happily, kicking some to the amused barmaid for some ale.

"Strid'r," she said warmly. He nodded and flashed a smile in return. "You've been eatin' my food and beating my patrons bloody for the last two days now. Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Aye, much actually. But I dropped someone off here who was near death when I left her. I'm not one to tempt the gods by abandoning her now." Taking a swig of ale, he grabbed some meat and threw a few more coins across the table. "Got to run, be back soon."

"Sure thing, hun." Wrapping the meat in some cloth, Strid'r shouldered his pack and ventured out into the city. No matter how many times he's walked out of the inn and into the cold, Eastmarch air, he could not stifle a shiver. This was cold that Strid'r was not used to, and it was _always_ snowing. Always. He was thankful for the fur gloves he had taken off some dead bandit. Down the steps, towards the massive gates and across the bridge, the dark-skinned warrior made his way far out of the city into the surrounding woods. When he was reasonably sure he was out of sight of the guards, he gave a low whistle.

Instantly, the snow in front of him shifted. Emerging from his camouflage, a very cold and very irritable Khajiit rose to eye Strid'r with open contempt. "Do you know what fur is good for, friend? Keeping cats warm. You know what keeps cats warmer? FIRE. J-Ruq has been here for two days now, watching the bridge for any sign of trouble and guess what? He's cold! Very, very cold."

Strid'r handed him the meat. "I'm sorry man. If I could get you into the city, I would. Here, have something to eat." J-Ruq begrudgingly accepted the food. "Any sign of the Thalmor? Vampires?"

The Khajiit shook his head. "You know, J-Ruq has made more enemies travelling with you than he ever has." Strid'r laughed as he chewed on a piece of meat.

"I sincerely doubt that. Just more powerful ones. How was the haul today?"

J-Ruq smiled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out several gems and gold pieces. "Very foolish Imperial nobles walking down the path. J-Ruq had their stuff before they even turned a corner."

"You ever think of going straight?"

"You ever think of putting down your sword?"

"Fair enough."

"I sincerely hope you two burned those bodies." In a flash, Strid'r's sword was out and J-Ruq's dagger poised to strike. The pair locked eyes on their target, the young woman clad in simple robes. Yrin had no spells in her hands, though, and seemed to be listing to the side. "If I were here to kill you, if I even could in this state, you'd be dead already." The Redguard warrior flicked his eyes at J-Ruq, who nodded in response. Slowly, the two put their weapons away. "Good. I feel safer already," Yrin said sarcastically. "Well, tell me: did you burn the bodies?"

There was a tense silence. "No," J-Ruq finally said. "There was no time."

"Then you have doomed us all," she replied.

"There wasn't any time. If we had burned the bodies, you'd be dead right now. Besides, they were pretty well cut up when we left them." Yrin shook her head and started collecting sticks.

"You clearly are not well versed with vampires. They are not ordinary foe: they are servants of Molog Bal. And he's not one to just leave his footsoldiers dead if he can help it." The continued to pick up sticks and began to arrange them in a star pattern.

"Well, sorry if we're not vampire hunters... and what in Akatosh's sake are you doing?"

"Making an offering to Arkay. A plea, asking for an intercession on his behalf. There's a chance he can delay the reanimation of the vampires long enough for them to start to rot, which would mean they'll be weaker when they return, considerably." Once the formation was finished, she blasted it with a flame spell. Muttering a few words of incantations, she let the pyre burn for a few seconds before turning back to the Redguard and Khajiit. "Well? Where are we off to?"

"I'm sorry?" Strid'r astonished face was given a smirk.

"Where are we going? And when are we leaving, I'd like to grab some supplies before we head off."

"Er... well, why exactly are you coming with us?"  
>Taking a breath, Yrin regarded the two travellers. "I owe you both my life. But more than just that: my soul. If I had been turned... for Arkay's sake, let's hope that day never comes to pass. I'm a strong mage, but as a vampire... I'd be unstoppable. So, I pledge myself to you, J-Ruq the Khajiit, as you are called." Taking another deep breath, she continued. "And to seal my pledge, I offer a Mage's Oath, a solemn promise that goes back to the earliest mages. I offer you my magicks, my livelihood, and if the need come, my life. Dare I break this oath, may by soul Oblivion take." With a blast, she unleashed a spell that bathed her in green light.<p>

A silence fell between the three. "Well, we should get moving. Riften's a good distance: if we move quickly, the city should be in sight by nightfall."

**A/N: Readers! Tell me your thoughts! Read, subscribe, comment, share, you know the drill! Next chapter we'll return to the Throat of the world, I promise. What new adventures await the heroes? Only time will tell! **


	13. Chapter 13 A Violent Reunion at Kynesgro

**A/N: A very long delay indeed! Busy I have been, and little time to write I have had. But this story will live on, so long as I have the need to blow off excess creativity. Enjoy, my loyal readers. Rate/Comment/follow. Do what you know, let me know how it is. ~the_hobbyist**

"By the Eight, the hall of the Vigilants burns. Never thought I'd live to see the day. My brother's a vigilant, down in Cyrodiil." Imperial General Tulius never took his arms off the table as he examined the map of Skyrim, tracing a line where the Hall of the Vigilants once was. "Send a detail down to secure the area, but retreat if engaged. No need to have our own men slaughtered needlessly, if we are up against so powerful a foe. Got that Legate?"

"Yes sir," Rikke replied, snapping a salute. Tulius gave one in return, before moving on to a different part of the map.

"Whiterun: what's the status there?"

"Balgruuf still refuses to allow us access to the city. All evidence indicates he leans to our side, but I fear some in his court are more inclined for Ulfric's 'Skyrim is for the Nords' nonsense." Tulius snorted with disapproval. "They're thickheaded sir, but I doubt they'll jump so easily on the bandwagon."

"See to it that they don't. Any word on survivors from Helgen?" The legate shook her head. "Alright, I think that's everything, unless you have something."

"Well sir..."

"Out with it legate, I have little patience today."

_Or ever_, Rikke thought silently. In truth, it was an honor to serve so decorated a soldier. A year under Tulius would be equivalent to a decade under a Jarl. This was the way to fast-track up the ladder: aid a recognized war hero in his latest service, get a commendation and a citation for bravery and the Legion will shower you with cozy promotions. The Legate glanced over at the map. They had to win first, though, and that meant she had to get this next point through her commander's head. "The crown sir. I ask for just _five_ good men to scout the crypt. If we can get the crypt..."

"How many men did we lose in Helgen, legate?" Tulius asked quietly.

"Close to a hundred," Rikke replied, dropping her eyes. She knew what was coming.

"Nearly a hundred good Imperial soldiers. But more than that. We lost Ulfric Stormcloak and his highest officers: they slipped right from our grasp. And the entire town was roasted alive. Ulfric showed Skyrim two things that day: the Empire could be beaten, and we can't protect our own citizens. In a single swoop, he won two major victories in the hearts and minds of your people."

"We have to tread carefully now. Ulfric's going to win more converts to his cause, gods know he already has with the fall of the Vigilants. If you think I'm going to go let you digging in an old Nordic crypt, desecrating locals' ancestors, you're sorely mistaken."

"I know how to treat the dead with respect, sir," Rikke bristled.

Tulius, ignoring her, went on. "I don't much care for the notion of a piece of jewelry making a difference in the war. I severely doubt it will. When the fighting starts in earnest, steel will decide the winner, not a crown of legend. In the meantime, best not to lose the support of the locals."

"But I can tell this is important to you. Five men? I can't spare any real Legionnaires, but take your pick from the auxiliaries. They're not likely to survive the first real battle anyway. Five won't be missed. But Rikke: I will not have you killed heedlessly. Do not engage any Stormcloaks in the area, there's no reason to. Run away when you can, leave men to cover your retreat if you can't. But return to me _alive_. I cannot afford to lose any more valuable staff."

"Yes sir, thank you sir. You won't be disappointed." Tulius waved his hand in dismissal. Rikke turned on her heels and exited into the courtyard of Castle Dour, seat of Imperial power in Skyrim.

**["My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"]**

J-Ruq, Yrin and Strid'r were walking under cover of darkness through the woods between Eastmarch and the Rift. The Khajiit's keen eyes were very useful in the dark, allowing them to easily avoid pitfalls and made traversing the difficult terrain easier. Given that they were several miles away from the road, the three decided that muted conversation would be safe enough.

"Magic? J-Ruq has never had a use for it. The only magic he makes is with his own hands, and his swift legs." J-Ruq's boasting was cut short with a yelp when Yrin launched a small flame spell at his rear.

"How'd your swift legs do there," she asked. Scowling, the Khajiit didn't reply. "What of you, Strid'r? How is your stance on magic?"  
>"Magic is used by the cowardly to avoid fighting hand to hand. I don't understand it, but nor do I underestimate it. The strongest mages can still be killed with a lucky arrow or a quick slash from a sword, so it seems to be that the power they can wield is only temporary." Strid'r paused thoughtfully, then continued. "Battlemages are the most dangerous foes I've ever faced. The less I see of such types, the better."<p>

"I think you'll only find more of them," Yrin replied ominously . "Magicka is on the rise." Before she could continue, J-Ruq hissed out into the darkness, bringing the group to a halt.

The ground shook with a thunderous roar as a massive gust of wind knocked the trio off their feet. Barely above the treeline a dark shape obscured the night sky, with large sinewy wings flapping hard. Although several times the size of the one at Whiterun, it was clear to the dragon-slayers they faced another terrible beast.

Neither Strid'r nor J-Ruq could explain what possessed them to run towards the danger, but run they did with Yrin hot on their heels. Wildlife fled in terror as the black dragon carved a swath of destruction through the forest, leaving trees uprooted as it flew. Finally, they came upon a small village, the residents fleeing in terror. When they reached the flat where the dragon was hovering, they came upon two unexpected sights: the black dragon pouring essence into a dragon burial mound, and Fraener Frost-Crown crouched behind a rock with an unknown female dressed in antiquated armor.

"Get back, this is too dangerous!" the woman called out to them when they approached, her voice low to not attract attention.

"Fraener?" Hearing his name, the young Nord turned sharply. Two jagged fresh scars ran down his arms, while his armor was covered in nicks. His hair was a ragged mess, a small beard had formed on his chin. No longer scrawny, his body was now a mass of powerful muscles. A deeper-voiced Fraener spoke out when he turned incredulous to his friends.

"Strid'r? What in the name of Oblivion are you doing here?" The Redguard began to explain, when the massive dragon began speaking the Common tongue.

"You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah," the dragon's powerful voice threatened the knock them off the hill. He then flew away, leaving just the newly resurrected dragon. After a moment, it attacked with blind fury.

J-Ruq was the first back on his feet, pulling a dagger from his belt in the blink of an eye. When the dragon snapped his jaws at the Khajiit, he sidestepped and jumped behind the dragon. In a swift motion, he plunged the dagger into the thin membrane of the wing. Roaring in pain, the dragon got on his hind legs and swatted the feline rogue with his good wing. J-Ruq howled as he was launched into a nearby tree.

Meanwhile, Strid'r was trying desperately to get closer to strike his foe, but to no avail. The dragon kept pushing him back with either wing or teeth, leaving the Redguard uncomfortably unable to land a blow. He was about to try a different strategy when there was a sudden shout from his left. Fraener's mouth was open wide as a gust of wind and raw power blasted through the air. The dragon recoiled as if struck, and unleashed a shout of his own. Fraener and the woman warrior, who had by then drawn her own long blade, braced themselves. Strid'r did not expect the power to be so great, and he was knocked over onto his back. His head connected with a rock very audibly, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

Yrin was actively trying to distract the dragon with fireballs, but it seemed to have no effect. The dragon simply refused to pay her any heed, and she knew her magika reserves were dangerously low. In a last ditch attempt, she blasted him with an ice spike, which caused a roar in pain. Spinning quickly, the dragon unleashed a torrent of flames towards the young mage. Yrin barely had time to cloak herself in a ward before the blaze hit her. When the barrage ended, she fell to her knees in exhaustion, dragging herself to safety behind a rock.

The young Dovahkiin and this mysterious woman were the only two left against this dragon, and Strid'r watched helplessly from the sidelines. To his surprise, however, the dragon was unable to land a significant blow against either of them. Fraener kept repeating a single word that made him move faster than the Hammerfell warrior could keep track, causing the dragon to snap at air instead of the young Nord. The mysterious woman was able to nearly dance between the beast's jaws, hacking and slashing gracefully with her sword at every turn.

When at last she had weaved her way close, she shouted for Fraener, who shouted in turn at the dragon. The dragon recoiled and hissed as if burned, and tried to bite at him. The woman jumped between the two, catching the dragon between the teeth with her blade. In an outstanding show of swordsmanship, she intercepted each bite and hit with a blow of her own. The dragon tried to physically knock her over with his head, but the woman-warrior slashed hard and fast, drawing much blood from its cheek. Before he could escape, she dug her long blade above his eye socket and used it as leverage to hoist herself on top of him. Once there, she plunged the sword under his chin and hacked upwards. The dragon roared weakly as she pulled tissue and muscle mass apart. Blood flew through the air as the dragon's throat was slashed violently, the beast's struggles growing weaker by the minute. Finally, the dragon fell to the ground in defeat, his body lying finished.

The residents of Kyesgrove had gathered around the fight, watching the dragon's corpse burn. One of them helped Strid'r to his feet, giving him a red vial to drink from. There was a sudden rush of air, and a bright white filled the eyes of everyone there are Fraener absorbed yet another dragon's soul. He seemed to raise off the ground as the very essence of the dragon flooded into his body. When the process finished, an eerie calm descended. After a few seconds, a Nord male took a tentative step forward, then dropped to one knee. "Dragonborn," he whispered reverently. After a moment's hesitation, the rest of the crowd did the same, bowing their heads in awe and respect to the lanky Nord standing, axe in hand, next to the decaying corpse of the resurrected then slain dragon.

Watching from a hilltop nearby, a small scouting party of Stormcloaks remained silent. Among them stood Ulfric himself, surrounded by his closest advisors. "See the power he wields simply because of who he is? THAT is the power we need. We must recruit him, to bolster our own legitimacy."

"Why not," Galmar said throatily, "kill two birds with one stone?"

"How do you mean?"

"The Crown, my King. Let me take him down with me. If the dragonborn crowns you the High King of Skyrim... who would reject that?"

"Interesting point. Very well. Find him with a courier, and then get the Jagged Crown." The Jarl who fancied himself King paused, looking up at the sky. "I feel a cold shift in the wind. Soon, the blood of the Nords will be tested in more than one battle, I can feel it."

**A/N: Now, I think I can guess what you guys are thinking: why skip over the whole horn of Jurgen Windcaller quest? The answer is actually quite simple: I didn't want to write what's been written a thousand times. No, I believed it was time for a different angle to emerge. And emerge it shall: the story will deviate significantly, as the group sticks together for now. Anyway, hoped you liked it and as usual comment, follow or like to your heart's content.**


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